


of brokenness, anew

by mistweaverx



Category: Warcraft - All Media Types, World of Warcraft
Genre: Blood Elves, Dalaran - House Arrest, Eventual Romance, F/F, Family Drama, High Elves, Prisoner of War, Slow Burn, The Kirin Tor, The Purge of Dalaran, Undeath
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-21
Updated: 2020-04-10
Packaged: 2021-02-27 05:34:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 23,062
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22351897
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mistweaverx/pseuds/mistweaverx
Summary: The Val'kyr pact had to be fulfilled, even without a body.Sylvanas reawakens – only to suffer the displeasure of those who wronged her, confined to house arrest in Dalaran under the watchful eye of her sister and Jaina, still reeling from the Horde.AU divergent timeline. Post 5.4 Siege of Orgrimmar and War Crimes, taking place 1 year later.
Relationships: Jaina Proudmoore/Sylvanas Windrunner
Comments: 77
Kudos: 232





	1. Broken

**Author's Note:**

> Hey there! First time posting here instead of ff.net, so bear with me.
> 
> Inspiration: MoP was absolutely juicy for drama - the oh-so spicy gift that kept on giving with the Purge of Dalaran, Jaina vs Lor'themar reckoning, angry Jaina, Vereesa dishing out her special brand of 'justice' to Blood Elves, Little and Lady Moon, and the silliness that was Garrosh's farce of a trial. I'm going to be drawing upon all of these things in this story.
> 
> Premise: What if Vereesa had the nerve to follow through poisoning Garrosh? In the end, Vereesa still abandons Sylvanas with a mere letter.
> 
> Setting: Post 5.4 patch. AU divergent timeline from War Crimes, taking place 1 year after. WoD and beyond never happens.
> 
> Important: Expect endgame Jaina/Sylvanas romance. Italicised text will be contextualised from this AU divergent timeline, covering the events that occurred after War Crimes leading up to now in chronological order. They will be interspersed between chapters, appearing every second chapter. Most - if not all - characters are derived from lore i.e., already established, meaning you can look them up to better visualise their appearance.

"Based on what Vereesa has mentioned in passing," Jaina was saying, "this appears to be an Orb of Translocation."

"What remains of it, " Modera amended. "How unfortunate."

Modera crouched down in appraisal of the device in question. Sorting through the rubble proved fruitless. Parts of the device were twisted and bent, others fragmented reminiscent of glass shards. Nothing was salvageable enough to be particularly useful, bits and pieces broken as they were.

Still, there was something to be found. Modera stood, giving her a piece of scrap.

Jaina stared at the figurine in her hand. Though marred from debris, the silhouette still bore the colour of gold – the warmth of the sun. It had been carved out in likeness of its creators – graceful and slender, all delicate lines befitting a Sin'dorei woman. Her hands and feet were outstretched in motion; the woman may as well have been dancing.

It was lovely – deceptively so, something Jaina knew all too well. Her lips tightened in displeasure at the reminder.

"It doesn't matter," Jaina said, gripping the figurine tightly. "Broken or intact, the Blood Elves no doubt deactivated it before going into isolation. You won't find anything of use in that pile of garbage."

She turned to leave the chamber, tossing the figurine at her feet. It made a grating sound when scraping the ground, screeching as though it had a voice, but Jaina ignored it. She had long since hardened her resolve against similar protests.

As soon as Jaina exited the side chamber, descending the stairs to the courtyard, her nose wrinkled in aversion.

The Kirin Tor and select few Silver Covenant mages had managed to freeze away the blight, however its essence never quite left. Ever pervasive and toxic, the stench of death and decay still plagued the Ruins of Lordaeron. Time had not been kind, either; the walls and fallen buildings were covered in grime, following a year of stillness and negligence. The filth only worsened the stench.

"It still reeks here," Jaina said with a grimace. "I wish we could do something about the smell."

Modera gave her a sympathetic smile. "Clearing the remaining blight pools may alleviate the stench. But our work here is done. We can only hope the Explorer's League is suited for the task."

"I hope so."

Jaina meant it. She thought of the task, of Calia Menethil approaching Dalaran for help to make the Kingdom of Lordaeron hospitable again. And to think that, had things been different, Calia might have been her sister-in-law.

It was a sombre thought, the weight of it hampering Jaina's shoulders as she walked alongside Modera.

They surveyed the Ruins of Lordaeron in their passing. Rhydian and Pentarus lingered in the courtyard. The two Archmages were chatting up a storm as they packed supplies, aided by Captain Elleane Wavecrest and Ranger Selone. Vereesa had sent members of the Silver Covenant in good faith, tasked with patrolling the outlying skirts of Tirisfal Glades. It was unnecessary in hindsight, as all had been quiet, but a precaution nonetheless and means of protection.

Modera took a seat on the stone dais in the centre of the courtyard.

"Something wrong?" Modera asked when Jaina did not follow suit. "You look troubled, Jaina."

Jaina shook her head. "Forgive me, I was struck by a memory here," was all she said for a moment. She sat down next to Modera, careful about propping her staff against the dais. "I can scarcely believe a year has passed since then."

"Sylvanas certainly left her mark, didn't she?"

If Jaina was not mistaken, Modera almost sounded impressed. The note of admiration made her swivel her head sharply at her colleague in disbelief.

"A mark of misdeeds, you mean," Jaina said slowly, enunciating every word. Her voice was hard – her gaze even harder. "The evidence surrounds us as a stain here – just as it does in Gilneas and Hillsbrad as I've been told. She was as much Horde as the rest of them until it became inconvenient."

Modera met the look evenly. "Be that as it may," she said, "Sylvanas nevertheless left a mark here that only we could clear. I daresay she left a deeper mark in her homeland as well."

Semantics, Jaina wanted to argue. But she did not press the matter further. Her grip on her robes tightened as an outlet for irritation, and she looked away, not trusting herself to look at Modera any longer.

It was at moments like this that Jaina became wary of Modera, of her diplomatic ways – that unending capacity for neutrality. Her voice on the Council of Six carried equal weight, and she had always reasoned that Dalaran remain neutral. The principle may have been noble and of sound logic on paper, yet practicality of it bordered on apathy towards the enmity between the Alliance and Horde.

That much had been evident to Jaina after the Destruction of Theramore when she had sought retribution, pleading with the Kirin Tor. She did not forget that – nor could she fathom how, after Theramore and up until the Purge of Dalaran, Modera had been Aethas' friend.

"Sylvanas managed to unite the Alliance and Horde in retribution. That is a feat in itself – a mark that kept faction relations civil for a year."

Modera placed her hand over Jaina's. Her touch was gentle, almost soothing, and she stroked the strain against whitened knuckles there.

Jaina stared at her.

"Wouldn't you agree, Jaina?"

"I need to go." Jaina snatched her hand free, her other one grabbing her staff. "Calia will be arriving soon to see the progress here before we return to Dalaran."

Jaina did not wait for a reply. She stalked towards the ruined gates of Lordaeron.

Distance from Modera was welcoming, easing the tension that had drawn her body taut. Jaina released a sigh as she reached the gates. The column to the side was cracked; nevertheless, she was able to relax against it.

It was not long before Calia arrived.

Dalaran floated in the distance, hovering near the Ruins of Brill. Calia descended from Dalaran atop a Hippogryph escorted by a High Elven rider. They dismounted, and she bid him thanks and farewell before parting ways with a hug. The rider appeared rather taken aback at the hug, however he did not take offense, and amiably patted Calia on the back.

The awkward interaction made Jaina smile. Despite mingling with humans in Dalaran for years, the High Elves still held proprieties from days of old.

"Jaina!" Calia called out from a distance, then she was hurrying over, gathering the skirt of her robes with one hand while carrying her staff in the other.

They met halfway, and Jaina could not help but laugh as Calia ensconced her in a warm embrace.

"It's so good to see you," Calia said, rubbing her shoulders. "How are you?"

"I am well. And it's good to see you, too." Jaina swept her gaze over Calia, taking in her blue eyes, her golden hair that appeared to glow in the darkness of Lordaeron. "Priesthood suits you."

Compared to their last meeting, some few months ago during the proposal stage of the restoration effort, Calia looked better. She was glowing, even. Jaina could only imagine Calia's happiness once the capital city was restored.

"Come on, let me show you the progress we've made."

Jaina hooked Calia's arm around hers. They huddled together in comfort as they entered the Ruins of Lordaeron.

She steered Calia around the scattered rubble, pointing out areas that had come into direct contact with liquid blight. The toxicity may have seeped deeper into these areas with disastrous effects down the line. Calia made note of the areas, promising to relay the information to the Explorer's League when they took over the restoration effort. With the airborne blight cleared, structural survey and excavation of the land could begin.

Strolling through the Ruins of Lordaeron should have been relaxing, full of hope and plans and brightness for the future. For the most part, it was – until Calia began to tremble.

Jaina felt it through their linked arms, filling her with worry. "Are you quite alright?"

"I–" Calia fumbled, unsure of her words and herself. "It's just... by the Light, it's been so long since I've set foot here."

It took Calia a moment to gather her composure enough to continue, tears springing in her eyes.

"I've always clung to the idea of coming home," Calia said at last. She bunched her sleeve as a makeshift tissue to dab at her tears. "For the longest time, it was just that – an idea, a forlorn hope. Along the way I even met a scant few survivors from Lordaeron who yearned for home, too. But we couldn't come here, not yet. Maybe not ever."

It was a hard tale to hear. Jaina understood the sentiment all too well; she could only gaze at her friend with sorrow, thinking of the places she used to call home. Kul Tiras seemed a lifetime ago now, while Theramore was lost forever.

"The Forsaken called Lordaeron home, just as they did in life. Who was I to take that away from them, simply because they had perished and I had not?"

The tears had come and gone. Calia stared at the ground, her eyes downcast. "I guess it doesn't matter anymore. The Forsaken have perished and Sylvanas with them."

It seemed to be a thing of late – Sylvanas bleeding into conversations, twisting them unpleasantly.

Jaina found it irksome, unwilling to outright admit that Modera – for all of her friendliness to Aethas – had been right.

"Do you mourn them?" Jaina asked, adding in distinction as an afterthought, "And her?"

Calia lifted her chin without hesitation. "I do."

Jaina knew her expression must have gave her away, judging by how quickly Calia spoke, trying to assuage her obvious distaste.

"Jaina, please listen," Calia said, squeezing her arm. "I know what the Forsaken were capable of – all the terrible things they did and may have done, had they lingered in undeath. Believe me, I _know_. Sylvanas probably had her hand in that. But they were my people and... I'm glad Sylvanas could lead them when I could not. In their passing, I pray they find some semblance of peace."

The hand at her arm rubbed gently, no longer squeezing. Jaina felt the touch keener than any blade and wished she hadn't. It was kind – unnervingly similar to how Modera had touched her.

"Anyway, enough about me." Embarrassed, self-conscious laughter escaped Calia's lips upon seeing her wet sleeve. "It seems I have burdened you yet again, Jaina." She was apologetic at first, then visibly perked up. "Tell me, how fares–"

Calia never got to finish her question.

The clouds above Lordaeron darkened and swirled, churning as if it were a living, breathing thing. It was alarming, the abrupt change in weather heralding the unknown.

Jaina gazed up at the sky, angling her chin in time for wetness to splatter against her cheek. She gingerly touched her cheek, baffled by the sudden onset of rain. Something ominous was brewing in the night sky, that much was obvious, yet the rain was gentle. It was almost as if someone was crying – the sky weeping.

"What–" Calia squeezed her arm again. "I don't understand."

This time around, Jaina returned the squeeze. "Your guess is as good as mine."

They were not alone in this; everyone else in the Ruins of Lordaeron exchanged looks of puzzlement. Modera caught her eye; Jaina let go of Calia, starting towards her colleague – only to jerk backwards.

Thunder cracked like a whip against exposed skin, loud and deafening at first, before crackling steadily with charged power. Arcs of blue lightning struck with purpose, honing in on the centre of Lordaeron, lashing at the caved in throne room.

It did not matter that the archways and windows had long since collapsed, sealing the contents within, nigh impossible to venture into the depths of Undercity. The four crackles of lightning were utterly relentless, and they did not lose power while channelled. If anything, the lightning surges became stronger – more lethal and intent on unearthing the chamber within.

For what purpose, Jaina did not know. Not a soul had survived the decisive battle inside the throne room. She only had an inkling that something was wrong.

The rubble gave way to cracks, crumbling, then everything happened at once.

A halo of light shone above; the sky both seethed as it churned and wept rain. The stench of death and decay became sickeningly unbearable, foul enough to induce gagging. Blight seeped through the cracked openings in airborne and liquid form. Walls of ice hardened as a barrier, the chill of frost freezing the green mist plaguing the air. Someone was screaming, others yelling – a disorganised cacophony of it, coupled with grunts and sighs of exertion.

They managed to freeze away the blight, forestalling it – if only temporarily. So much was flowing out such that it took the combined efforts of all mages present to keep the blight at bay.

Modera stood at the front. Her eyes glowed, and the air around her bristled with power. She tried to direct pooled blight to the side, creating an icy barrier of her own in an attempt to alter its course down into the vats below.

From her position at the back covering everyone, Jaina sighed in relief. It seemed to be working.

But the worst was yet to come.

Black wisps hissed from the cracked openings of the throne room. It escaped like pressurised steam, somehow possessing a will of its own as it refused to implode and instead pushed outwards, emitting a shrill sound.

Jaina broke out in cold sweat, the chill ghosting her spine having nothing to do with the ice at her fingertips.

For a moment, she was there, then she wasn't. She was blindsided by a memory of that same black smoke, tendrils reaching out like grasping hands–

"Light preserve us!" The voice was hysterical and stricken; had Archmage Pentarus not been steadily channelling frost, everyone would have been convinced he had lost his mind. "Jaina, something is trying to get out–"

"I know!" Jaina roared over the chaos, dimly aware of the hoarseness roughening her voice. She twisted her head to bark orders to her side. "Calia, I need your help. Those dark tendrils..." She took a deep breath. "We need to contain it somehow."

Calia stopped praying to stand at attention. She was scared yet determined – a combination so honest and true, shining as a beacon of hope. "How? What can I do?"

"Purify or dispel it – I don't know." The direness of the situation made Jaina grit her teeth. "Do something!"

At once, Calia raised her hand and began murmuring incantations, never letting her eyes stray from the wisps of smoke. She tracked every wayward tendril, purifying as many as she could manage in her limited capacity against the rapidly deteriorating wall. When single target purifying proved inefficient, she switched to mass dispel instead, increasing the scope of the abilities.

Try as she may, Calia could not stop it. The Light was not enough.

It was futile, that much was starting to become obvious. One of the cracks had fissured and finally exploded, leaving a gaping hole in the wall for more blight to escape. The entity of smoke would have escaped had it not been for the last ditch effort of Calia calling upon the Light to suppress it. Soon, the collapsed wall would explode entirely.

All of their hard work would be for naught if they left now. It stung to abandom dreams of the future and leave Lordaeron in a sorry state as another home lost.

Jaina loathed that she had to make the call. "Prepare to leave," she called out. "Everyone, edge closer to me. I can stabilise a portal–"

"Wait!" Captain Elleane raised her hand, overriding Jaina in the heat of the moment. She squinted ahead, her eyes transfixed not at the gaping hole in the wall, rather what was inside it. "I think... I can see something in there."

Selone sent her pointed look. Lithe like the rest of her kind, she climbed one of the last remaining pillars in the courtyard with nimble ease. The vantage point granted her better visibility as she balanced her weight atop it and readied her bow.

For a moment, Selone did not utter a word. She, too, squinted her eyes in concentration, perking her ears up to discern sounds between the chaos. Then, she exhaled a shaky breath. " _Belore_ , you're right." Her voice was rife with disbelief, and she actually lowered her bow, mouth hanging agape. "I can make out the shape of a body."

This was folly, Jaina thought to say. Her mind was racing with possibilities at what this meant – all the things it could portend. She opened her mouth, only to falter at the uncertainty of it all.

Modera took charge, seeing as Jaina could not.

"I will clear a path for you two while the others hold this position." Modera's eyes flashed in warning, flicking to the ruined wall. "Do not dare breathe in the blight. Jaina, get ready with a portal. This is going to be rough."

Fingers gripping her arm startled Jaina. She blinked, coming to, barely having enough time to register Modera's touch.

The High Elven women shared a look of grim determination before venturing forward, following the frozen path ahead, sprinting. They braved the unknown, disappearing into the throne room, black smoke engulfing and obscuring them from sight. Modera flanked them using ice, holding the path clear as best she could with limited vision.

Jaina forced herself to focus. She conjured a portal, localising it to the outlying Ruins of Brill. It was a fair distance from Lordaeron for respite while not too far such that it was a struggle to maintain an open channel. She had managed to stabilise it when the rangers returned.

They were not alone, carrying a limp body in a state that by all rights should not exist – a face that made Jaina gasp.

"No," someone was saying over and over. It took Jaina a few seconds to realise the voice belonged to her. "I watched her die. She was consumed by the blight. It can't be!"

And yet it was – Sylvanas as she had been in life.

The world was spinning. Exhaustion, questions, anger – all of it overwhelmed Jaina, then Modera was grabbing her hand, yanking her into the portal.


	2. Rage

Jaina saw stars.

_–Lucille Waycrest, the dimpled cheeks of her childhood friend – a friendship much to the approval of Katherine and Daelin with the daughter of a fellow noble house. Mother would have been cross to discover she had strayed from her lessons to play tag in Drustvar forest, dirtying the delicate finery of her new dress. Not that Jaina cared as she leapt over a puddle, giggling at Lucille, glancing behind her, then–_

_"Lady Proudmoore!" the guard said in alarm, shaking her body sprawled at the base of tree. A frantic hand touched her forehead. "Lady Proudmoore, can you hear me?"_

Someone was shaking her again, touching her forehead.

"Lady Proudmoore!"

Jaina opened her eyes, groaning, still reeling from the messy transit. She blinked, haziness sharpening into focus, trained on the blueness of High Elven eyes.

Captain Elleane noticed her attention and breathed a sigh of relief. "Thank goodness you're alright, Lady Proudmoore."

It was a struggle to sit up. Elleane offered a hand, and Jaina took it, allowing herself to be swept up onto her feet by deceptively strong arms. Never let it be said that High Elves were lacking in the strength department despite their slender frames. They would never hear it from her.

Standing made Jaina realise she must have rolled over at some point. She grimaced at the state of her robes, knowing she must look like a mess. A glance at her soot-stained surroundings said as much. The Ruins of Brill had been reduced to a barren, ashen wasteland after the siege. For all of the Forsaken it housed in the past, already swarming with undeath, the remnants of the town was more lifeless than ever.

Still, there were more important things to worry about than dirtied clothes, and she was not about to emulate her mother. Katherine Proudmoore probably would have been both flattered and displeased.

Jaina focused on Elleane once more. "Is everyone else alright?"

"A bit disoriented, but otherwise okay," Elleane answered. "Archmage Rhydian did mention needing a whole cask of Aged Dalaran Red, though." The corner of her lip curled in amusement. "Something about getting 'wasted' after this."

Jaina barely refrained from rolling her eyes, briefly forgetting the events that had transpired earlier. "We could all use some Aged Dalaran Red," she said. "You tell that woman she needs to learn to share."

Elleane inclined her head, her smirk widening just so. "I will be sure to remind her. On my sailor's honour, Lady Proudmoore."

They shared laughter, a moment between one woman of the sea to another – sailors in their own respective rights.

Jaina thought of the Wavecrest, that ornate, High Elven ship that had braved Northrend and the turbulent waters on the expedition to the Isle of Thunder. It was rather gaudy, dissimilar to the weathered ships of Kul Tiras and the Stormwind Fleet, but had proven to be resilient and seafaring on its own merit. She would have asked about its whereabouts had she not spotted blight in the distance, remembering the Ruins of Lordaeron.

Her face, soft with laughter, hardened into severity. "What of Sylvanas? Where is she?"

Elleane stiffened. "Over there."

Jaina was already moving in that direction before Elleane could speak further.

The others were huddled on the steps of a ruined house. Pentarus and Rhydian were conversing in hushed tones. Modera sat with her back turned; she seemed to be consoling Calia who had buried her face in her hands. Much like Elleane, Selone was tense, pacing back and forth in a flurry.

Jaina sent them only the cursory of glances; the body in the distance rapt her attention. She approached it in slow, cautious footsteps.

* * *

_"Vereesa?"_

_At the call of her name, Vereesa started. She had been leaning against the wall in the corridor, lost in thought._

_"Anduin," she greeted, turning to face him. "What are you doing down here?"_

_"I came to see Garrosh before the verdict is given," Anduin said. "I didn't want to see him again – especially not after Alexstrasza's testimony – but I feel like I should. Someone has to."_

_Vereesa's reply was forthcoming. She seemed to scrutinise Anduin, weighing matters on her mind. "And why is that?" she said at last, her voice flat._

_Anduin glanced down the corridor leading to the kitchen. Further down, after a few turns and flight of stairs, awaited Garrosh in his cell._

_Thinking about Garrosh and the inevitable yelling made Anduin wince. "Well, it's the last opportunity before the end of the trial. Seeing him probably won't change anything." He gave a helpless, awkward sort of shrug. "I just thought... to say goodbye."_

_"It sounds like token courtesy more than anything."_

_"Maybe so," Anduin said. "Still, everyone deserves that much, don't they? To at least hear goodbye."_

_Vereesa stilled. Her hand went to her neck, fingers curling to reach for something that Anduin could not see. It turned out to be an itch as Vereesa ended up scratching her neck, the faintest jingles of jewellery ringing._

_She left quickly, not saying another word._

_He watched her depart before making his way along the corridor in the opposite direction. On the way to Garrosh's cell, he passed the makeshift kitchen in the Temple of the White Tiger, stopping briefly to give them his regards._

_A few turns and Anduin was there, standing right before Garrosh's cell. The brothers on vigil exchanged puzzled looks at his unexpected arrival._

_"Prince Anduin," Lo said with a bow. "What brings you here? I don't think Garrosh was expecting any visitors."_

_"No, he wasn't. May I see him?"_

_"As you wish, Your Highness." Li bowed in the same manner as his brother. "Garrosh may be more agreeable since dinner has already been served."_

_"Thank you."_

_As always, Anduin entered the cell with trepidation. The door closed behind him as he walked to the bars housing Garrosh._

_"Away with you, human child," was the first thing Garrosh said – growled, actually. "I have no interest in wasting breath on you."_

_Garrosh did not bother to rise from the furs lining his bed, if anything getting more comfortable, spreading his legs. He grabbed the tray from the bedside table placed there moments before Anduin arrived and rested it against his legs._

_The aroma of fish curry wafted to his nose, making Garrosh snort. The Pandaren were a simpering, cowardly lot; it seemed the only thing they were good for was cooking. He picked up a sunfruit quarter and squeezed it over his curry before lifting the bowl to his lips._

_Naturally, the human child was saying something – preaching about the 'Light' humanity fawned over to make up for their inadequacies, no doubt. Garrosh hardly paid attention, tilting the bowl to slurp the curry. The moment he swallowed, he started to shake. The bowl fell to the ground, spilling and breaking. Within seconds, the tremors gave way to bodily convulsions._

_"Help! Open up!_

_Garrosh clutched his neck in agony. Blood and foam clogged his throat, making it impossible to roar or yell in rage._

_"Please, somebody help!"_

_The door to his cell banged open as Garrosh collapsed, never to move or breathe again._

* * *

The first thing Jaina noticed was skin – the curve of a spine.

Sylvanas did not stir. She lay motionless on her side, her head tucked into her chest, curled into herself as if in protection. Pale-blonde hair covered her face, the rest of the wayward strands affording the flimsiest of modesties. She was stark naked – all lithe and slender lines of long limbs curved inwards like a newborn. Her skin was fair, streaked as it were from the ashes of Brill – dirtied yet intact, lacking any traces of undeath.

At a glance, Sylvanas appeared whole. But closer inspection drew a deep, furrowing line at Jaina's forehead in alarm.

The black smoke from earlier lingered, swathing Sylvanas in a sheet of warping darkness. It moved underneath and through her, somehow alive with a will of its own. Instead of escaping, wisps of that black smoke seeped inwards towards the body – into Sylvanas.

Something was wrong – even if Sylvanas looked so right. All of this was unnatural. Jaina heard a shuffle of movement behind her but did not dare look away.

Pentarus sounded uncertain as how to phrase his question. "Is she, you know... alive as undead?"

"Well, she certainly doesn't look undead. Not at all I must say," Rhydian murmured in appreciation, raking her eyes over Sylvanas' nude form in appraisal.

Selone clicked her in tongue in disapproval. "Enough. That is the Ranger-General you're checking out – former, that is," she corrected, maintaining the respects of her decorum. "You would do well to avert those eyes of yours away from her bottom."

Modera edged closer than the others. If she noted the black smoke, she made nothing of it. Her expression did not flicker, nor did her voice waver. "Check for a pulse."

Wary of the smoke, Jaina knelt next to Sylvanas and reached out. She carefully angled Sylvanas' chin towards her, tilting enough to grant exposure of that neck. The lack of resistance was startling, if not downright disturbing, moving not with the stiffness that gripped the dead, but rather the limpness of an inanimate object – neither dead nor living. Sylvanas did not draw breath, either.

Jaina pushed her misgivings aside to apply the slightest of pressures at the neck. "Nothing," she said after seconds of stillness. "I can't feel any–"

She froze, and Modera shifted at her back. "What is it?"

Jaina bit her lip in concentration, her eyes glazing over, turning distant – everything falling away as she anticipated a pulse with bated breath.

The black smoke receded.

It was then that Jaina felt it – the first thump of a bounding pulse.

Sylvanas' eyes snapped open, and Jaina was shocked by their hue – how they glowed blue like Vereesa's. And that those eyes were glaring at her.

She barely had time to react, summoning an ice barrier in time as Sylvanas shoved her away with brute force hard enough to send an armoured footman flying. The barrier absorbed the brunt of the blow, however she still staggered backwards, stumbling into Modera.

Sylvanas scrambled to her feet, backing away.

The air thrummed with magic, firing up hotly in a telltale crackle of heat.

Jaina felt the body behind her shake, steadied in the arms of her colleague. Modera raised her voice, sounding furious for the first time ever in Jaina's leading tenure of the Six.

"Hold your fire!"

It was too late; the spell was already mid-air by the time Modera finished.

Pentarus cast a scorching pyroblast at Sylvanas. It missed by a long shot as Sylvanas leapt out of the way, exploding against the blackened ruins of a house, but it did not matter. The damage was done – the killing intent out in the open, leaving conflagration in its destructive wake.

"You fool, what have you done?" Rhydian yelled, throwing her hands in the air. "Sylvanas was unarmed!"

"With all due respect, I don't think she needs a weapon. She struck Lady Proudmoore!"

Pentarus was right. That much was made clear when, through the smoke and ashes, came a broken wooden plank – and Sylvanas with it. The speed at which she came swinging at Pentarus was frenzied, making up for the crudeness of the weapon.

Wood splintered on impact, blunted by an ice barrier Pentarus managed to throw up at the last second. He staggered; Sylvanas was on him in an instant, preying on his weakness with a vicious slash. The barrier held at first. Sylvanas was unrelenting, though. She kept hitting it over and over, growling, every enraged blow bringing Pentarus closer to his knees using her bare hands – knuckles that trickled blood.

The barrier flickered, dying in a whirling hum. Pentarus hit the remains of a fallen statue, the collision rendering him dazed. Sylvanas darted forward; she would have torn him to shreds had it not been for Elleane.

The sailor swung wide with dual wielded blades, cleaving through the space Sylvanas had been moments before. It granted purchase for Elleane to put herself in front of Pentarus. Sylvanas hissed, undeterred by weapons brandished. One of the blades clattered to the ground, slackened from trauma at the wrist when Sylvanas launched herself forward, lashing out.

A violent struggle ensued, a mess of swiping hands and flailing limbs.

Sylvanas appeared intent on strangling Elleane, and Jaina was incensed to see it. She wanted to stop this madness and intervene, but neither she nor the other mages could safely cast an offensive spell without certainty of avoiding collateral damage to Elleane.

In the ensuing struggle, Selone readied her bow. She nocked an arrow, locking her eyes on Sylvanas. Her aim would be truer than any spell.

But Selone did not fire immediately. Facing down the prospect of shooting the former Ranger-General, she hesitated. Torn with indecision, she eventually deferred the choice. "Jaina, I got an opening."

Jaina gave the order in a heartbeat. She would not have another friend perish on her watch.

"Take it!"

"No!"

The arrow pierced the air even as Calia's words came in protest.

Calia called upon the Light, casting a barrier to lessen the shot. Light shimmered into existence, forming a dampening field the shape of a dome. Everyone watched the arrow sail through it and merely graze Sylvanas' back in stunned disbelief. It was one thing to refer to the light in passing – another thing entirely to witness its work right before their very eyes.

"Look at her. Sylvanas is clearly not in the right state of mind." Calia gripped her staff in earnest, pleading with her eyes. "Maybe we can help her!"

"Calia, I know you grieve for your people and maybe even Sylvanas. But as it stands, we can't trust–"

Calia grabbed Jaina by the shoulders. "If we are in a position to help, then by the Light we should do so. We aren't the Horde!"

The words were a slap to the face – the fingers digging into her shoulders only making it viscerally worse. Jaina reared back as if surely Calia had struck her. It was an unfair blow _–_ an abhorrent comparison to the warmongers that had obliterated Theramore and betrayed Dalaran. She felt further attacked, pushed into the corner when Modera slid into her peripheral vision.

"Calia is right," Modera said. "The Kirin Tor handles matters of unstable magic. This situation warrants capture and control."

Jaina clenched her jaw, exasperated by Modera reiterating their purpose – that she was once again right. "Fine," she conceded, even if she did not like it. Another prisoner for the Violet Hold, then.

Everyone had their orders to capture, not harm. They turned to face Sylvanas standing in the middle of ruined Brill. Elleane had managed to fend Sylvanas off long enough for Pentarus to regain his footing. They stood at the back, leaning on each other. She looked far worse for wear with handprints shadowing her neck.

Sylvanas stood alone, now. Her shoulders were hunched, chest heaving, and her arms and bent legs were drawn taut as a bowstring. She was snarling, baring her teeth in defiance; and, for all that she was naked and outnumbered, her stance was unyielding.

"Sylvanas Windrunner," Jaina intoned, loud and clear. She stepped forward. "Stand down. We will not use force unless necessary."

The call of her name did not register – not even the fallen statue to the side crafted in honorary likeness of her by the Forsaken, her people. Sylvanas' eyes darted left and right frantically without recognition – looking without seeing.

Seeing the wild, frenzied look in those eyes made Jaina pause, glimpsing what others had noticed. Maybe Calia had been right – Sylvanas was not quite 'there'. She kept that in mind when she raised her other arm, outstretching her hand to Sylvanas as if to placate, to soothe. Her suspicions proved true when the movement riled Sylvanas.

Sylvanas darted forward, however she did not get far. Jaina made sure of that.

She channelled ice to keep Sylvanas at bay, much like the blight. It worked to halt her tracks as frost both weighted and numbed her limbs. Other mages took the initiative; they, too, began to channel a steady breath of ice, spurred on by the Archmage. It was working. Soon, with their combined efforts, Sylvanas would be frozen solid. They would be able to securely transfer her to the Violet Hold without needless bloodshed and contain her.

Jaina watched the ice form and harden around Sylvanas. It dawned on her the power at her fingertips – the ease at which she could end Sylvanas. The irony of the situation was not lost on her; this time, it would be Sylvanas in place of Orgrimmar – an ice lance to the throat instead of a tidal wave.

Orgrimmar had been and still was a Horde capital city full of scum and filth, and Jaina understood their thirst for carnage enough to know the world was better off without them – better to kill them first than be killed.

But Jaina did not know Sylvanas beyond the word of mouth from others. Try as she may, nothing could have prepared her for this.

Jaina did not even know what _this_ was.

Sylvanas' eyes bled to a burning red. Her veins dilated, bulging, straining against skin that rippled as if it were alive in its own right. The change started at her extremities – the parts of her that fought to move but could not – before spreading to the rest her body. It sought release, following the encrusting layers of ice until it reached Sylvanas' frozen neck, swirling around her jaw. Something was trying to get out.

It was unleashed in a blood-curdling shriek when Sylvanas opened her mouth. The arcane prison containing her shattered. Shards of ice fell to the ground and everyone else with it.

Jaina dropped her staff to clutch the side of her head in agony, scarcely tethering the flow of arcane at her other hand. She pressed her ear tight, trying to stave off the torment, the horrific ringing in her ears. The world as she knew it was reduced to shapes – mere blurred lines and streaks of colour. Something black warped the space around it, and she was being pushed back. Her flow of ice, which was already tenuous, waned by the second as the darkness fought to overwhelm her.

She could not hold on for much longer. Harnessing the arcane only made the pain worse, as she could not cover her other ear. Her exposed ear felt fit to burst. Jaina had to do something, anything.

A smear of orange streaked across her vision. It created an opening of sorts, causing the darkness to split, spreading its power thin. Perhaps it was a fireball.

Jaina did not know; all she knew was to push back with all the strength of might she could muster, taking the opportunity. The darkness dimmed – the scream faltering enough for her to wield ice with both hands. She forced herself to move and threw herself at the darkness.

The world spun. Jaina hit the darkness that was somehow softer and more contoured than she imagined, panting heavily. It turned out the darkness was the black smoke, dissipating in wisps around her, and the body cushioning her fall was that of Sylvanas which she had shoved to the ground.

Sylvanas had stopped screaming – not even moving anymore, just breathing. The back of her head had hit the fallen statue. Jaina held her down by the neck, anyway; she drew her other arm back as far as it could go, pushed to the limit. She burned – the heat within unaffected by the freezing ice lance she grasped, aimed at Sylvanas' throat.

Clothing rustled; footsteps sounded in the distance, then a voice.

"Let go, Jaina."

Someone was touching her, familiar and gentle – Modera, she realised.

"It's over. You're going to be okay."

Jaina stayed like that for a while. She could not stop the shaking, that heat inside. By the time she let go, the ice lance had melted, and so had she – anchored by the warmth from Modera's hand rubbing her back.

* * *

 **A/N:**[Here](https://makanidotdot.tumblr.com/post/182213120081/he-did-not-even-bother-to-dismount-instead-the) is Sylvanas as I pictured her during the Mexican standoff, minus clothes. Be sure to check out Makani's amazing work!


	3. Strong

Dinner was, as always, a struggle.

Trying to convince Giramar and Galadin to eat their vegetables was an exercise of exertion.

In some ways Vereesa found it harder than shooting a moving target – more gruelling than warfare, even. Extraneous factors made archery difficult, of course. Sometimes arrows went awry – the fletching flawed, faulty by craft. Other times she had simply not aimed true.

Unlike motherhood, archery was straightforward. Certainty came from the linearity of improvement. Training, drills, hunting, then training again – the regime interspersed by killing, and she was familiar with that. Nothing more than hard work, and nothing less – the latter to her detriment.

Vereesa was no stranger to warfare, either. In Quel'Thalas, at Halduron's behest seeking aid to quell the Amani uprising, she had answered the call and shared command of half the combined ranger forces. She had overseen the Isle of Thunder expedition as second-in-command, deferring only to Jaina among the Kirin Tor Offensive. And then handling the Sunreavers' betrayal – necessary work to be sure, yet bloody all the same.

Archery was honed, whereas she loathed that warfare was necessary. When it came to motherhood, however, Vereesa fell short.

Motherhood was hard. Going at it alone made it that much harder. To make things worse, she had missed milestones of her children's lives in her absence, leaving a void – an emptiness she longed to fill. Her inadequacy had never been more apparent than it was during mealtimes, trying to instil proper eating habits in her children – a task she dreaded and now faced.

"I hate these. I don't want to eat them."

Vereesa sighed.

"Yeah, you keep giving them to us even though we hate them," Galadin added, spurred on by his older brother.

"Boys," Vereesa started, thinking that, for all of her years as a mother, she had still not figured it out, "settle down and finish your dinner. Vegetables are good for you."

Galadin whined. " _Minn'da_."

Vereesa sighed again. Her children were nothing if not her weakness. Calling her 'mama' in the native tongue from her homeland was always a soft touch.

As soft as one could be when touching a raw wound.

This was going nowhere. Vereesa set her cutlery down on the table; even then, she could not manage that properly, clinking the finery by accident. Her hands, though graceful and nimble as any ranger, lacked familiarity to human etiquette. The strange custom had not stuck and probably never would. She had grown up using her hands as utensils to eat, better suited to the finer and delicate foods of Quel'Thalas.

"You know, when I was your age I hated my vegetables," Vereesa said. "You probably got that from me."

Giramar perked up. "Does that mean we can skip them–"

"Hush, you," Vereesa interrupted. "Let me finish." She scooted her chair back to make space and motioned to her twins. "Come here."

Galadin came running from the opposite side of the dining table. His closeness to her was somewhat clingy. Unlike his older brother who preferred taking charge, Galadin opted to take cues from others. Vereesa liked to think she knew – at least able to make an astute observation of her children.

Or perhaps the reason was far simpler; Galadin could not bear to be parted, not anymore. Vereesa tried not to dwell on the harder truth.

"I didn't like vegetables, not at first," she said. Galadin reached her, and she waited until her son was settled on her lap before continuing. "The texture, the taste... It left much to be desired. I hated them so much that I once threw a tantrum in my refusal and nearly flipped the dinner table."

Giramar burst out laughing.

The imagery was rather silly, Vereesa supposed. Her lips twitched, threatening to ruin the story. "That was when my sister stepped in where my mother gave up on me."

"One of our aunts?" Galadin's voice was rife with excitement.

Vereesa smiled faintly. "Yes, one of your aunts."

Tales of the past and Windrunner escapades never ceased to regale her twins.

"Everyone was busy telling me that vegetables are full of nutrients and would make me strong. Vereesa this, Vereesa that," she mimicked in mockery, altering the pitch of her voice. "But rather than tell me, my sister took me aside. She showed me."

The twins were hooked. Galadin hung onto her every word while Giramar's mouth hung open.

"My sister took me all the way to the heart of Eversong Woods – a few days ride from Windrunner Spire," Vereesa continued. "She carried me on her back as she climbed the tallest tree in the forest to the top. And when we made it to the top she pointed out the view."

Children were an imaginative bunch. Vereesa made sure to tell the story using her hands, lifting them above her head, much higher than that of her sons.

"The trees in Eversong Woods are tall, you see – very tall, indeed," Vereesa explained, motioning with her raised arms. "And I was so small. But up there, at the top of the tree, with my sister..." She trailed off, looking wistful. "It felt as if I was on top of the world."

"Wow," Giramar breathed in awe. "That sounds awesome."

Vereesa nodded. "It was. The trees looked smaller from where I was on her back, almost like vegetables. Plants and bushes as well. I felt like a giant looking down at everything beneath me. From that point on, I made sure to eat my vegetables."

"But why?" Galadin pressed. "What does the tree have to do with anything?"

"My sister showed me what it meant to be strong," Vereesa answered, looking down at her son in her arms. "She carried me on her back even if it was hard for her. And she always ate her vegetables – without fail, without tantrums. I could think of nothing else but becoming strong, too."

Giramar looked down at his plate. He picked up his fork, speared a piece of vegetable, furrowed his brow in conviction, and put it in his mouth. The grimace was immediate. He maintained his manners to chew his food and swallow before speaking.

"Do you still hate them?" Giramar picked up another piece of offending vegetable and wiggled it at her. "The vegetables."

"Yes," Vereesa said, willing herself to be honest. She hated a lot of things, really. "But I eat them anyway. Not everything we have to do is nice. Sometimes we do things with our hands, oftentimes getting them dirty, doing unpleasant things." Her eyes fell on her hands, and she marvelled at how unassuming they were – how clean they appeared to be. "We do what we must."

The lesson struck a chord in one of her twins. Without further complaint, Giramar went about finishing his vegetables, doing his best to hide his grimaces.

Galadin, meanwhile, looked confused, the crinkle at his forehead saying as much, worrying by the second as he watched his brother.

Vereesa smoothed that slight crease using the pad of her thumb. The movement drew Galadin's eyes to her, and she shifted his attention to his plate instead, pulling it across the table so he could see.

"Take this vegetable for example." Vereesa picked up a leafy green, placing it on the palm of her hand. "Look at how small it is. It almost looks like a small tree, doesn't it?"

"Yeah, it looks tiny," Galadin noted. He took the vegetable, turning it this way and that, considering, then held it in the centre of his palm. "Maybe this is a little tree and I'm the giant."

Vereesa laughed softly. "Well, this tiny tree has a lot of goodness in it. And it will make you strong. I promise. " In emphasis, she cupped his smaller hand in hers such that they were holding the vegetable together. "You should eat them so you can be strong like me." Her smiled wobbled a bit. "Like your aunt."

It was decided, then. Galadin hopped off her lap with renewed vigour. He reached for his plate of untouched vegetables, announcing, "I'm going to be a giant!"

"Bring it on! I'm going to be bigger and stronger than you!"

Trust her boys to turn the imparted lesson into a race, competing to shovel their vegetables down the fastest when, prior to dinner, they would have sooner thrown their food. Vereesa could only shake her head in fond exasperation.

Later that night, after Vereesa had tucked the twins into bed, her mind wandered. She thought of home.

Was Dalaran her home? She was standing on the balcony of a home she owned, after all. Her home, tiered high in typical Dalaran fashion, was situated near the Silver Enclave. The height afforded quite the view overlooking the magic of Dalaran. It was lovely, and her home was cosy, if a bit narrow given the enclosed space of Dalaran.

And yet its beauty paled next to Quel'Thalas. Vereesa had not admitted this to anyone – nor would she. Rhonin lived here, but he was gone. She had made a home here for her sons, and doubtless would always be welcome – but only because she was unwelcome where she yearned to be. Dalaran would never be her home, truly.

Vereesa sighed a third time. She made to turn away from the railing. A speck of movement at the base of her home caught her eye, followed by an urgent call.

"Ranger-General!"

It must be Captain Elleane. Vereesa hurried to the front door, quickly poking her head in the boys' bedroom on the way down.

Vereesa opened the door and inhaled sharply. " _Belore_ ," she breathed, shocked at the battered, bruised form greeting her. "Look at you. What's happened to you?"

"I cannot say, not here." Elleane's voice was hushed in secrecy. "Lady Proudmoore requested that I bring you to the Violet Hold."

The mere mentioning of the prison raised Vereesa's hackles.

"It was the Blood Elves, wasn't it?" The accusation came flying out of her mouth. Her eyes followed the handprints around Elleane's neck, thinking the worst. "Was there a prison break? The Sunreavers? I was wondering why you hadn't reported in earlier."

"This has nothing to do with the Blood Elves." Elleane moved restlessly on the spot. Her irritation was not aimed at Vereesa so much as something else. "It's hard to explain. You had best come see her yourself."

Her? Vereesa could only assume that meant Jaina.

It was only later, when she entered the Violet Hold, and led through the high-security threshold, that Vereesa felt the stirrings of unease. This section of the prison was secluded from the others, locked down tight beyond physical means of restraint, and for good reason – the entities housed inside were unstable and dangerous.

Elleane directed her to one of the cells. The magical barrier dimmed, and Vereesa took the initiative to walk through it. She was no mage, far from it as a ranger, but felt arcane pulse through her body all the same.

Jaina was indeed present, turning in acknowledgement at her arrival, among others clustered on one side of the cell.

"I must warn you beforehand." Jaina took her elbow, guiding her to the retinue from Lordaeron. "This might be a bit of a shock."

Vereesa felt uneasy. The grouped parted at her approach, their murmurs quietening. Some bowed their heads when she drew close, as if afraid to meet her eyes. Her misgivings worsened when Ranger Selone caught her by the arm, giving her a hard squeeze bordering on painful. Selone did not linger, departing quickly, the others from Lordaeron soon trailing after her, leaving Vereesa alone with Jaina.

From their behaviour, Vereesa could have sworn someone had died. But when her eyes flicked to the corner, no longer obscured by a crowd, the opposite had happened.

Vereesa nearly forgot to breathe.

"Sylvanas," Vereesa whispered, then she was rushing forward, reaching for her sister.

Seeing was not enough. Vereesa had to touch to be certain – feel the certainty of Sylvanas.

For many nights now Vereesa saw Quel'Thalas in her dreams. She imagined that she could smell the scent of eternal spring, could stroll along the winding paths and valleys, could even bask in the warmth of the sun – feel its heat without the harshness of its glare. But her home was closed off, and she no longer trusted her eyes. The faces of those similar to hers she had once called her kin were deceptive.

Perhaps this was another dream – a lesson in hardness for what she had done, and would do again. It was only a matter of time before she dreamt of reaping the blood owed from kinslaying, mocked with the body of her own flesh and blood.

Life could be cruel that way.

Somehow, Vereesa found that life was kind. Nothing withered at her touch; she could feel Sylvanas without having to jerk back to reality. Her sister was real and very much alive, evident from the slow, steady rise of her chest covered by a sheet.

"We were preparing to leave Lordaeron when it happened."

Vereesa could not stop looking at her sister. "Pray tell, what was 'it'?"

"I don't know for certain," Jaina said. "The clouds wept and lightning came from the sky. It created a disturbance in the throne room, almost like a stirring from within."

"That far into Lordaeron? I thought you said the place collapsed a year ago at the Fall of the Forsaken." Vereesa finally tore her gaze from Sylvanas, frowning over her shoulder. "You said Sylvanas died."

"I know what I said," Jaina cut in swiftly, sharper than she had intended, judging by the heaviness of her sigh. "I was there, Vereesa. Those who ventured into the throne room never made it out alive – even Sylvanas. The blight consumed everything. It was still there a year later, pouring out in waves when the chamber was opened."

If anything, the recount of events served to confuse Vereesa further. She was still frowning, the lines deepening when she noticed the filth dirtying her sister's skin. It looked wrong – almost insulting against Sylvanas' unblemished skin. 

"Modera thought this to be the work of necromancy. After all, she was there when Kel'Thuzad's experiments on undeath were exposed. I thought the same at first," Jaina was saying, pausing in uncertainty, "given the Forsaken and their state of being in this world, but..."

"But she doesn't look undead," Vereesa finished for her. "Or dead for that matter."

"I wouldn't be so sure of that."

Vereesa looked at her friend pointedly.

When Jaina next spoke, her words were measured. "Sylvanas may very well be undead. Based on what others have seen in their travels, she exhibited traits of a banshee, emitting a horrific scream. Had her rage been unchecked, she would have strangled us all with her bare hands."

That would explain the bruises marring Elleane's neck. Knowing that did not set Vereesa at ease. "What else happened when she woke up?"

"Sylvanas lashed out at everyone, leaving us no choice but to subdue her. I'm not sure what caused the rage." Jaina meandered around the cell in her musings. "Her death? Coming back to life? Were the Forsaken always angry? I don't know. But I will say this – Sylvanas reacted to us strongly."

Vereesa found it in her being to laugh – a bitter, hollow sound. "Sylvanas was ever strong-willed. She was always strong in our family."

The pacing behind her stopped. Jaina touched her shoulder, squeezing it hard to the point of pain – much like Selone had. Vereesa was grateful for its anchoring strength.

"Modera has already informed the rest of the Council about this matter," Jaina said. "We have all agreed to keep Sylvanas under strict watch until she wakes up and go from there."

Vereesa nodded. "Who else knows about this?"

"Only the handful from Lordaeron, the Council of Six, and you." A pause, then Jaina added, "For now."

The implications were clear; it went without saying that this was a matter of utmost security and secrecy.

"I understand," Vereesa murmured in assent.

She rose to her feet, stepping away from Sylvanas' bedside. Rather than follow Jaina to the exit, she walked to the basin in the corner of the cell near the sink, making use of the bare facilities allowed for a prisoner. A strip of cloth hung by the sink. Vereesa grabbed it, along with the filled basin of water, and returned to the bedside.

Whoever had haphazardly flung a sheet over Sylvanas had the tact to leave a set of clothes.

Jaina was the one frowning now. "Vereesa, you don't have to–"

"I'm not leaving her like this," Vereesa snapped, more to herself than Jaina. "She–"

She what?

Vereesa was at a loss of how to explain herself. Jaina was her friend – the closest person to her after Rhonin had died. Revealing the truth would jeopardise that bond and the twins' stability. She could not confide in Jaina without implicating herself, divulging her role in the poisonous plot to murder Garrosh. After all, though Sylvanas had supplied her the poison, it was by her hand and murderous idea that Garrosh had died.

Sylvanas might awaken hating her, spurning the cowardice of that mere letter. Maybe life would deal another cruel hand to have her sister awaken without recollection of anything. It would be kindness for some – others only pain. The merciful possibility of the latter made Vereesa feel worse; her hands would never be clean again.

In the end, Vereesa settled for the simplest of truths.

No matter what the future brought, whether her sister remembered, if she even woke up at all, Sylvanas would always be the one to have carried Vereesa on her back climbing that tree, showing what it meant to be strong.

"She's my sister," Vereesa said at last.

* * *

Sylvanas wanted to hit something. Badly.

The back of her head throbbed as she came to. Goodness, it hurt – incessant, aching. She really, really wanted to hit something to detract from the pain. And it had been so long since she felt such bodily sensations of pain. She had no idea where that had come from, nor did she recognise her surroundings.

Where was she?

Slowly, ever so cautiously, Sylvanas drew herself into a sitting position, realising only then, when placing her hands behind her in steadiness and feeling softness, that she had been lying on a bed. Or, rather, someone had put her there. A blanket had been tucked around her nicely. Someone had also taken the liberty to dress her in clothes.

Sylvanas looked down at her chest, intending to examine the clothing – only to freeze.

Her hands, what–

The sink in the corner with a mirror. Sylvanas flung the blanket away and made for it, skidding to a halt on bare feet. In her haste, plus the dampness of the floor, she banged her foot against a pipe. Pain shot from her foot all the way up her leg. She swore. Goodness, that hurt, too.

Sylvanas had to make a conscious effort to ignore the throbbing. She gripped the edge of the sink with one hand, using her other to wipe the layer of dust coating the mirror. When it was clear, she leaned forward.

A long, hard stare followed.

Her reflection was that of the past – as she had been in what was a lifetime of torment ago. The echoes of the past were there, etched in the sharp lines of her face, softened only by the curve of her mouth. Her face had always been angular, if a bit severe. She liked to think she was striking that way, standing out among the rest. There was something to be said in the effortless command of such attention.

What snatched her attention above all were her eyes. Sylvanas leaned closer to examine them. They were blue – bright and glowing. The dimness of the room only enhanced that glow in the low dark. She recognised the glow for what it was – a by-product of the arcane, connected to the Sunwell of old.

Sylvanas did not know what to make of this. Whether this body was truly hers, only time would tell. It would have to do for now.

Careful inspection of her surroundings led Sylvanas to believe this was a prison. A simple bed against the wall, a chair, and a sink and toilet for basic needs. There was no need for lights given the arcane illumination of the wall.

At first, Sylvanas did not touch the wall. It spanned the entrance of the cell as a swirling, barring mass of violet energy. She tried peering through it to no avail. When mere observation failed, she filled the basin at her bedside with water and threw its contents at the wall. The wall hummed, but otherwise did not move or change shape. Based on sound, it seemed responsive.

There was a surer way to find out – a method which would also detract from these bodily sensations.

Sylvanas grabbed the chair and dragged it across the cell. Her ears registered the scraping sounds clearly, as keen as ever. She grasped the chair by its legs, testing its weight against her strength. Like her ears, her muscles appeared to be in working order. She took a moment to flex, gathering momentum, then swung the chair at the wall.

The feedback was everything she suspected and more.

Arcane rippled through the wall in pulsing waves. The ensuing hum of magic was loud, almost volatile in its warping sound. The chair broke, splintering into pieces. It was apparent the wall would respond accordingly to its prisoner.

What Sylvanas did not account for was feedback from behind the wall.

Shadows swirled behind it.

Instinct drove Sylvanas to reach behind for her bow, her other hand flying to her waist for her blade. Finding neither, she settled for a broken piece of wood from the chair. It would be a crude, ineffective weapon, yet it was something to wield nonetheless. She had just managed to put space between herself and the wall when the shadows took shape.

If this was mockery by the darkness, giving her a taste of life only to snatch it away, then so be it. Sylvanas refused to face the inevitable end while whimpering on her knees.

The arcane wall dimmed; shadows became one with it, passing through. Beyond the wall came–

"What manner of trickery is this?" Sylvanas hissed, recognising two of the three figures entering the cell. "Jaina Proudmoore, of all people?" Her eyes, piercing as any arrow, honed in on the High Elven woman flanking Jaina. "And you – I know your face."

The nerve of a Farstrider to draw a bow on her – one that had survived the Scourge, no less. To add insult to injury, the three women ignored her outburst, exchanging looks around her in exclusion. Sylvanas had the distinct impression she was missing something.

Jaina cut a figure of authority, punctuating every word. "I will only say this once, Sylvanas Windrunner," she commanded. "Stand down."

Sylvanas weighed her odds.

Two of them were armed – the Farstrider with an arrow nocked at the ready, and Jaina holding her staff aloft. The third woman, a white-haired human, did not draw her staff strapped at her back; though, the very fact that she neglected to, bespoke of her talent as a mage. Fighting two mages and a Farstrider would be problematic, given the close quarters. Granted, even if she did manage to kill them, she faced the task of navigating an unfamiliar prison.

It went against every fibre in her being to stand down, but Sylvanas had no choice. The odds were stacked against her, and she was ill-equipped to actually escape.

"Fine," Sylvanas forced through clenched teeth. To make her point, she tossed the wooden spike to the side.

Jaina exchanged words with the Farstrider. The woman nodded in grim determination. She unlocked a set of shackles hanging at her waist and approached, snapping them around Sylvanas' wrists.

"Magic suppressing shackles." Sylvanas glared at them, then at the Farstrider who should know better of her as a ranger. "Really?"

Jaina sent her a withering look. "Be thankful you aren't gagged."

Sylvanas wondered where that snarky comment came from. It angered her – less because of scorn, more due to confusion. Elves wielded scorn as a weapon; she could trade barbs, giving as good as she got, but that was beside the point. The lack of information on her part was infuriating. She never went in situations blind, yet here she was – marched out of a cell for reasons unknown to her.

Scouting for information was key. Sylvanas slipped into familiar strategic tactics, noting points of interest along the way to an undisclosed location. She was led down a narrow corridor, the path leading to a massive chamber.

Passing the circular row of cells made Sylvanas suspect hers was different – smaller, secluded. Here, cells lined the chamber in spirals on varying levels connected by stairs, and were noticeably larger in size. For that purpose, the arcane barriers, though similarly violet, were transparent, ensuring visible accountability of the prisoners within.

All manner of beings were contained inside – monsters and creatures Sylvanas never knew existed. She glanced at them, regarding the faceless, nameless beings with only mild curiosity, vaguely entertaining the thought of setting them lose on their captors. She did not bother to look twice.

The next set of cells, however, were different.

Sylvanas tried not to stare.

Blood Elves filled the cells. Suddenly, the larger capacity of the cells made sense – for communal purposes. They were imprisoned in clusters, grouped together for all that they walked different paths in life. Civilians, mages, rangers – their captors did not discriminate.

None of them recognised her; they continued to pace back and forth or huddle on the ground – restless, withdrawn or unresponsive. That is, except for one – a Blood Elf child.

Among the lifelessness of the prisoners, the child shone, bursting with curiosity. The girl perked up at sounds of footsteps, forgetting the wooden toy dragon she had been playing with. She came close, flattening herself against the arcane wall, and proceeded to press her face against it, tracking the movements outside of her cell.

Sylvanas peered down at the little girl in her passing.

In turn, the girl looked back, standing on her tiptoes. She followed the wall as far along as she could until her tiny form vanished from sight.

The remainder of the walk was uneventful. Sylvanas was taken to a reinforced room, directed to sit at one end of the table. She preferred to stand, wondering if she could refuse, but one look at Jaina's face carved from stone indicated she would find herself seated in it whether she liked it or not.

Once seated, Sylvanas was bound to the table and chair. An ethereal chain materialised as part of the table, latching onto her shackles. It did not yank, appearing loose and languid, merely floating above the table. Still, she knew better than to test the magical capabilities of the restraints. She settled for waiting, knowing Jaina and her lackeys would return shortly.

Sylvanas was no fool. She recognised an interrogation when she saw one. Sitting alone there made her remember the eternal darkness – the eyes looking at her, claws tearing her apart. Even now, she was being watched.

Let them watch.

With a sneer, Sylvanas tossed her hair. She relaxed, leaning backwards in lazy comfort. The seat was no longer a mere chair; for her, it was a throne upon which to stare down those who presumed to judge. She draped one thigh over the other, absently shaking her leg in waiting, toying.

The impending interrogation loomed, reminding her of the creeping dark.

Sylvanas refused to sob this time. She would not be broken – never again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Blood Elf child is Salandria – yes, that cute orphan from Children's Week. I figured I would leave that here as food for thought.


	4. Knowing

Jaina was annoyed.

Something about Sylvanas rubbed her the wrong way. It had nothing to do with words spoken. Sylvanas had been quiet since leaving her cell, and the interrogation was still pending – Modera was yet to return. No, Jaina realised as her presence was blatantly ignored, watching Sylvanas from the opposite side of the table – it had everything to do with words unspoken.

Sylvanas treated everything as mere dirt beneath her feet. She lounged in her chair like she owned it. One hand toyed with a lock of her hair; the other tapped the table, starting from the littlest finger to her thumb, drumming in a crescendo.

It was maddening. Jaina wanted to make it stop. By the time Modera took a seat at the table, she was spoiling for a fight.

"This is Jaina Proudmoore – Leader of the Council of Six," Modera said, indicating her way. "I'm Archmage Modera of the Six."

The tapping continued.

When it was apparent no reply was forthcoming, Modera asked, "Do you know why you're here?"

Sylvanas had taken to something else other than her hair. She answered without looking, examining her nails with idleness akin to boredom. "You seem to have all the answers," came her reply, dripping with condescension. "Why don't you tell me?"

Jaina had enough. She held out her hand open to Sylvanas. For all that it was a simple gesture, it demanded attention.

The tapping stopped.

Arcane glowed at her fingertips as Jaina seized control of the ethereal chain to do her bidding. The barest curl of her fingers had the loose chain yanked upwards, directly above Sylvanas. She did not stop there. One by one, her fingers kept curving until she had Sylvanas right where she wanted – poised, straight-backed, arms suspended in the air.

The curl of her fingers had been slight, leaving her hand open. Jaina refrained from balling her hand into a fist. She did not have to; though her hand appeared empty, the threat of crushing was clear – holding Sylvanas in her palm.

"In case it has escaped your notice, you are a prisoner here." Jaina ran hot, even if her words were cold and hard. "The Forsaken are gone, and you are all that remain. You had best remember that when you speak."

Sylvanas' eyes flashed. They burned red, and her arms caught in the air strained, shaking in fury.

The room seemed to darken. For a wild moment, Jaina thought Sylvanas would break her restraints and finish the job – strangling her across the table. She envisioned black smoke seeping into the room. Her arms also strained in readiness, anticipating a fit of rage. Even Modera drew in a swift intake of breath beside her.

The burning redness vanished as quickly as it had come. Sylvanas reigned in her rage, even if she still looked murderous to strangle them. Her arms slackened, and she no longer shook. Most of all, her eyes lightened to blue.

Jaina breathed easier at the sight. She withdrew her hand and eased the chain with which she had wrangled Sylvanas into line. Compromise went both ways. Still, seeing those eyes burn red a second time was alarming, hinting at deep-seated rage – something churning within.

Modera resumed her questions. "Can you tell us the last thing you remember?"

"The farce of Garrosh Hellscream's trial," Sylvanas said.

Now that she was coerced into speaking, Sylvanas wielded her voice as a weapon where her hands could not – cutting, all sharp edges.

"A pointless show of politics and making nice disguised as a hearing for justice," Sylvanas went on to say. "I did hear the food was delicious, though – simply to _die_ for. Wouldn't you agree, Lady Proudmoore?"

Sylvanas tilted her head to the side, one eyebrow raised, looking as though she desired nothing more than to listen to what Jaina had to say.

Oh, now Sylvanas deigned to look? How rich. Jaina pursed her lips and avoided the bait. It was bad enough that Sylvanas had attended the trial, made privy to her exposure of weakness at her rawest, lowest point after Theramore's destruction. Now, Sylvanas dangled Garrosh's demise above the table, gloating over exacting her poisonous brand of vengeance.

Deep down, Jaina loathed that it worked – damning in its truth. She would never get her due owed for Theramore, and Sylvanas delighted in rubbing that in.

"Do you remember what happened after the trial?"

"Of course I remember." The scorn was back as Sylvanas side-eyed Modera. "I'd be hard-pressed to forget the combined forces of the Horde and Alliance besieging my city. And if I recall correctly," Sylvanas added, glaring at Jaina, "you were there."

Jaina squared her jaw. "I was. The Horde treated Garrosh's assassination as an internal matter. They said they would handle it. Given the Horde's track record of things, they couldn't be trusted to follow through." Leaning forward, she made her point – rubbing it in. "The Alliance came to ensure it was handled."

Sylvanas scowled, affronted by the very notion of being 'handled' in any capacity.

Jaina leaned back in a vicious sort of triumph. She feigned ignorance of Modera looking back and forth between them, turning a blind eye to disapproval.

"What about after that?" Modera continued. "Do you remember anything?"

Sylvanas spared her a glance. "Regarding what exactly?"

"How about this prison, for example – the Violet Hold in Dalaran." Modera maintained her placid veneer of calm. "Do you know how you came to be here?"

The corner of Sylvanas' lip curled. "I awoke to a loathsome throbbing at the back of my head." She looked away, focusing on a spot near her shoulder, which she rolled. "I don't suppose you would know anything about that, would you?"

A pause, during which Jaina frowned while Modera blinked several times.

"Do you mean to say," Modera began, "you have no recollection of falling over and hitting your head?"

Slowly, Sylvanas turned her head. If looks alone could kill, she would have murdered Modera on the spot, rending her apart by the sheer outrage in her eyes. "Do I look like someone who makes a habit of falling over and hitting my head?"

Even in the face of death, Modera did not falter. Her expression turned pensive; she placed one hand over the other, neatly folded on the table.

"Does strangulation ring any bells?" Jaina threw out, offended on her behalf. "Screaming? Trying to kill everyone?"

"As thrilling as that sounds, in particular the strangling part," Sylvanas mused, entertaining the image in wicked amusement at their expense, "I can't say it does."

Jaina scoffed in disbelief. "How convenient."

Sylvanas narrowed her eyes, debating something in her mind, before deciding to pursue it. "Out with it."

"Excuse me?" Jaina retorted.

"Spit it out." An imperious, swiping hand gesture added to that command, unchecked by the lax chain. "You obviously have some sort of problem with my being here. Well?" Sylvanas reclined in her chair, at ease bordering on arrogance – a far cry in difference to the glowering woman she was taunting. "Cut to the chase."

It was all Jaina could do not to give Sylvanas a piece of her mind. Modera's contentment to watch this scene play out only made it worse, burdening her wavering self-control.

Sylvanas took the silence as weakness – preying on it with ridicule.

"Have I wronged you personally? Was it the fiasco in Southshore? Did I blight a long lost cousin thrice removed from your mother's side?"

From her cavalier tone, Sylvanas could have very well been discussing the inanity of weather or something equal of little consequence. The callous disregard for her misdeeds winded Jaina as if Sylvanas had walked up to her, drew her hand back, and slapped her in the face.

"Or perhaps, Lady Proudmoore," Sylvanas drawled, "you favour dogs over cats, sympathising with the flea-bitten mongrels in Gilneas."

"Why, you–" Spluttering at first, indignation pushed Jaina to quickly find her spine. "I ought to portal you straight to Genn and see what he'll make of you!"

The threat sailed by – Sylvanas brushing it off with another flick of her wrist. "Go ahead," she said, sounding bored. Her palm became a lazy cushion for her chin. "I'll make leathers from his corpse instead – after I use his mangy hide as a pincushion for my arrows."

Modera cleared her throat, rather awkwardly at that.

"Jaina is not alone on this matter," Modera reasoned, trying to steer the escalating situation into calmer waters. "By all accounts from the Fall of the Forsaken, you were killed. At the end of the battle, you blighted your own city – including yourself. You shouldn't be here."

A loud smack echoed in the room.

The hand supporting Sylvanas' chin hit the table; the chains at her wrists came alive, flaring in disturbance. She straightened in her chair, somehow towering over them in her position as a prisoner while seated, looming with her presence.

Sylvanas was menacing. Her voice tinged between a hiss and rasp with a biting, grating note of anger. "Who are you to decide that? Because of power?" She rattled her chains in defiance of her restraints – unbound in the ways that mattered. "Knowledge?" Her chin jerked at Modera's tabard – the Kirin Tor emblem on display. "You think your library of books grant you knowledge? Of knowing?"

"The Kirin Tor is a governing body of magic," Modera returned evenly. "To that end, we hold ourselves above conflict. Our purpose is to seek knowledge in its various forms." Her head dipped in acknowledgment. "Many tomes are resources of great power and insight. It is not unreasonable to say that knowledge can be found in books."

"A well-rehearsed speech," Sylvanas sneered. "Except last I heard before the Fall of the Forsaken, Dalaran was no longer a neutral city." Modera swallowed, and Sylvanas bared her teeth, going in for the kill. "So much for your vaunted neutrality. Is that what you tell yourself when you wave your magic around, trying to make wrongs into rights?"

The cutting remark sliced deep.

Seeing Modera break eye contact and examine her hands outraged Jaina. She was never quite on the same page with Modera – unusual for them to see eye to eye on council decisions. In truth, she had always wanted to see her colleague out of her element, squirming if just a bit. But never like this.

Jaina fired back questions of her own. "And I suppose you think yourself all knowing? More worthy than us?"

Sylvanas did not speak; her look was answer enough, boring into Jaina.

Modera eventually found her footing. "I misspoke," she admitted. Her bout of stumbling had flushed her cheeks. "What I meant is that the circumstances of your being here is unexplained. It is cause for concern."

Her face became grave as she interlaced her fingers. Placing them atop the table was more for her own benefit, granting her a modicum of stability – as though she was unsure of even what she claimed to know.

"People depart from this world in death," Modera said. She studied a spot on the table as she measured her words. "They rarely if ever return – and when they do, they tend to do so in a persisting state of undeath, lingering through necromancy." Her eyes finally flicked up to regard Sylvanas. "No one has ever returned as you have."

Jaina agreed; for once, they were in complete accord. She tamped down the pettiness that had made a mess of things.

"Vol'jin went in after you," Jaina stated. "Even if you didn't kill him, the collapsing walls would have. The blight consumed everything in the end. Both of you were presumed dead. And yet here you are – alive a year later. How is that possible?"

Sylvanas shifted in her seat, touching the armrest. "A year?" She repeated. "It's been that long? I don't believe you."

Modera tried to be accommodating. "We could get you some newspapers to confirm the date if that would help."

The suggestion seemed to fall on deaf ears. Sylvanas did not react, other than to grip her armrest tightly.

Jaina noticed it, seeing the white-knuckled grip from where she sat. The grip appeared to be oppressively tight, almost suffocating in its grasp, drawing attention to the raw and battered skin to which it strained, threatening to bleed anew.

"Sylvanas," Modera said. "What happened after you died?"

No reply came. Sylvanas refused to meet their eyes.

"Where did you go from Lordaeron?" Modera asked, gentling her voice. "Did something happen to you?"

The lack of response was exasperating. Sylvanas was acting obtuse or unable to answer for whatever reason only she knew. Either way, Jaina's patience had worn thin. Her nerves had been frayed enough for one day.

Jaina stood, splaying her hands wide to dominate her side of the table. "Have it your way, Sylvanas," she said. "We'll leave you to your brooding and continue this another day." She issued an ultimatum of sorts as she turned to leave. "Perhaps by then you will have decided on how much your silence is worth."

Modera left in search of Selone to escort Sylvanas back to her cell. Jaina already had the door open when a voice rang out.

"Lady Proudmoore."

Something about Sylvanas' voice stayed her hand – faintly echoing. She paused at the door, back turned, holding it open.

"You said you wanted answers. Here it is."

Jaina wondered if this was another game – taunting, trying to get a rise out of her.

"You wield your magic as a part of you. You read those books of yours, imparting knowledge with your eyes and hands when you write. You have a voice with which to speak. What happens to you when all of that is taken away? Do you truly know?"

Jaina's stomach churned at the imagery. To lose senses and the will to speak... There was no words – nothing she could say to that. Suddenly, it was difficult to turn around – harder than it ought to be. And when she did, it was to freeze, stifling a gasp. Sylvanas had ruined the armrest, breaking it beyond repair. It was too far bent and twisted – too broken.

Sylvanas was staring – not at her, or in her vague direction, but through her.

"Nothing matters in the end. Not your talent, your sense of honour or deeds – even so-called worthiness. Only then, when you are reduced to nothing, your soul stripped and laid bare, curled up in the dark, will you finally understand. Only then will you know."

Sylvanas' eyes were blue, glowing. They might as well have been red.

Jaina felt their burning when Sylvanas snarled at her.

"Get out."

* * *

_The Temple of the White Tiger was wrought with tension._

_Against the efforts of the Shado-Pan, news had spread, first in hushed whispers, until its inevitable fledging into full-blown commotion, reaching the separate Alliance and Horde camps on the outskirts of the Temple, and those outside of Pandaria._

_Leaders and advisers of their respective factions arrived in a flurry by means of portal, sprinting, or flying mount. Everyone came to bear true witness to the news._

_Garrosh's death._

_Jaina had just exited her own portal from Dalaran when the fabric of existence nearby warped. She tensed, sensing magic, as did Vereesa behind her who, despite favouring the bow, was attuned to the arcane._

_Out of the portal came none other than Lor'themar. He was cordial from the truce on the Isle of Thunder and bade them a cursory nod. It eased the tension somewhat, except it was short-lived. He was not alone; the portal held for more figures to pass through. Halduron emerged, tall and poised, looking past her to regard Vereesa. Following him was Lady Liadrin, striking in her plate armour. The last to emerge was Rommath._

_The Sin'dorei retinue was larger this time. Given the graveness of the news, Lor'themar had deemed safety in numbers. Halduron was amiable with Vereesa, while Liadrin seemed approachable enough, if a bit stern. But Rommath..._

_He took one look at them and that was it. The Grand Magister of Silvermoon had seen enough of them to last a lifetime. The mask of his robe did little to hide his loathing, making his fel-green eyes stand out. Rommath turned on his heel, robes swishing about to follow Lor'themar up the stairs into the Temple._

_Some of the faction leaders and their supporters were already inside. Their raised voices rang in the vastness of the chamber, audible from the stairs._

_"The Shado-Pan said you were the last person to see Garrosh – the only person in his cell when he died."_

_"Saurfang be speakin' da truth. What were ya doin' in der anyway, boy?"_

_"Watch your tongue in how you speak to my son, Warchief! If anything, we should be looking at your Horde."_

_Jaina gathered enough from the snippets of conversation to fear the worst. She barged up the stairs, shoving aside the crowd._

_It was just as she feared. Vol'jin and Saurfang were talking down to Anduin. Standing behind his father, he had never looked so small. Her heart arched for him._

_"Leave him alone!" Jaina rushed to Varian's side, both of them shielding Anduin from the Horde. Their cruelty manifested as scrutiny this time – harsh and accusing. She would not stand for it. "Have you no sense or honour at all, stooping so low as to accuse a child of murder?"_

_"Jus callin' it like I see it," Vol'jin said. "Dat boy was in da cell when Garrosh went down. An everybody be shady here now as a suspect."_

_"That also makes you a suspect, then," came a voice from afar, but no less lacking in command._

_Every head turned._

_Tyrande strode inside the chamber, the masses parting at her entrance, making way for the fierce accuser of the trial. At her loyal side was Shandris. She walked up to the gathering of leaders, saying, "One would think you ought to be careful in accusing others when you are a suspect yourself."_

_"Whisperwind." Vol'jin was of a height with Tyrande, meeting her eyes levelly. "Ya be da one doin' most of da accusin' here."_

_To her credit, Tyrande did not react to the slight. "Only because I was appointed the task. It does not make me more guilty – the same way it does not exclude Baine as a suspect for defending."_

_A cackle sounded from the Horde's side of the room. No one knew where exactly it came from, unable to match the sound to a face. The owner of it had to prod and poke with a bejewelled stick, forcing people out of the way._

_By the time Gallywix reached them – which took far longer than it should, much to everyone's vexation – he was huffing and puffing from the exertion. "Baine, you hear that?" He pointed to Tyrande with his cane, trying to detract from his less-than-stellar shape. "The lady called you out!"_

_"Funny you should say that," Mekkatorque said, and he, too, came forward, arms crossed, "because no one called you out for your input."_

_Moira threw her head back and guffawed. "You got the fightin' spirit of the Alliance in you, lad." She clapped Mekkatorque on the back. "I'll give you that."_

_Bystanders on the Alliance side of the room broke out in laughter. A handful even saluted, taking the praise to heart. They were proud. Given the bloodied past, not too long ago being at each other's throats, some among the Horde took offense, which turned into angry shouting._

_Tension was thick when Baine stepped forward. "No, the High Priestess is right," he said with a heavy sigh. "And pointing fingers without the facts only makes things worse. Where are the Celestials? We need to speak to them." Looking around the chamber, he tried to catch the eye of a Pandaren guard. "Can someone–"_

_"No need for that, dutiful defender," said Chi-Ji. The Spirit of Hope materialised at the ceiling and gracefully descended. "We were always here."_

_What was that supposed to mean? Had the August Celestials been content to watch the chaos unfold? Jaina started at Vereesa patting her arm, realising she had been shaking. She sent her friend a tight smile, but her face was set in hard lines when she turned at the undulating form shimmering into view._

_Yu'lon floated next to Chi-Ji. "Sad is the day we come together on this day."_

_"Nobody will mourn Garrosh. We came here to see justice done and get answers."_

_Genn had arrived, making his presence known with a growl. He was that of anger and ferocity in his Worgen form, and he made sure the Horde knew it._

_"The loss of life is saddening. We had hoped things would have ended on a brighter note. Instead of loss, life should have been begun anew."_

_Niuzao's words were jarring. To liken Garrosh with hope and new beginnings was an affront to all._

_Muradin summed up the reactions when he asked, "What are yeh sayin'?"_

_Even Taran Zhu looked surprised when he caught on, and he was closer to the August Celestials than most. "What verdict would you have given Garrosh?"_

_"Garrosh Hellscream would have lived to see better days," Xuen said. "Such is the path of life to learn and humble oneself. Life is not about reward or punishment. Bettering oneself cannot be done in death, so he would have been allowed to walk free. We decided this at the very beginning."_

_Tyrande was the first to speak out, demanding, "Why even hold a trial?" She had been a staunch accuser – only for her efforts to be in vain. "What was the point of all this?"_

_"To help you reconcile with the past and look towards the future. Garrosh Hellscream was not alone to stand trial."_

_Jaina felt like she was drowning. The world was awash with water, and she was lost at sea._

_"You–" She broke off, struggling to even speak – to hold her head above the waters and turbulence of her emotions. "You made me relive Theramore. All of it," she choked out. "You put me on trial. And for what? To make a fool of me?"_

_"No, Lady Proudmoore," Yu'lon said. "Never a fool. Only for you to be at peace with everything that has happened to you."_

_The memories of Pained, and Kinndy, and all that she held dear coalesced into a single entity of weight – and it crushed her. Vereesa was holding her hand now – trying to keep her from falling down deeper – but it was not enough. She was drowning, and rage circled like sharks around her._

_"Peace?" Jaina repeated, the word lost to her. "I was at peace before it was taken away from me. My peace is long gone – and my friends, and my city, and the survivors I sheltered from the Eastern Kingdoms dead with it."_

_There had been so few of them left. It seemed peace had withered away with the dead. Founding Theramore had been more than just a city and a foothold in Kalimdor. Arthas had left a wound, tearing the northern Eastern Kingdoms asunder, leaving survivors without hope and loved ones. Theramore mended that wound as best it could._

_"Life began anew for us in Theramore. It was better. But it was all destroyed because of Garrosh." Anger bit her, gnawing at her body that burned, shaking with fury. Before Jaina knew it, she was yelling. "How can I ever be at peace? You tell me that!"_

_Her voice roared, ending on a shout. She was not alone; other voices rose. The August Celestials tried to soothe Jaina and everyone gathered._

_"I can't believe this," Varian yelled. "What did you do with Garrosh? Where is the body? I would now see it for myself."_

_It was one of the Shado-Pan that answered in place of the August Celestials._

_"With respect, King Varian, we left the body untouched," Lo said – one of the brothers responsible for guarding Garrosh's cell. "Garrosh is still in his cell below the Temple–"_

_That was all Varian needed to hear. He stormed off, the Stormwind contingent he had brought along with him at his heels, followed by the rest of the Alliance leaders._

_They were not alone. The Horde had gotten wind of Varian's intent and they, too, made their way down the Temple. It was a struggle towards Garrosh's cell. The hallway beneath the Temple was narrow, unfit to accommodate neither the size of bodies, nor the hungering will of those yearning to feast their eyes on the truth. Everyone was trying to get through, the guards be damned._

_In the tight space, Jaina was jostled by Saurfang, shoved into Genn who caught her, growling at him on her behalf. She could make out the slanted slope of ears up ahead, spotting Tyrande standing taller than most. Someone pressed at her back – Liadrin, probably. She could feel the rigidness of plate digging into her spine, offset by a pleasant fragrance that could only be worn by the Blood Elves._

_Reaching the cell was not at all what Jaina expected. She thought closure; maybe more anger, drowning again – perhaps a bloody crime scene. She could not reconcile with the past, but seeing evidence that Garrosh had suffered would have sufficed._

_What she did not expect was Go'el, fending off those who attempted to bypass the bars and disturb Garrosh's body._

_"Jaina, please walk away," Go'el said to her when she approached. "You don't have to see this."_

_His voice was kind, and his hand at her shoulder was gentle, merely there. It only made Jaina angrier as a painful reminder of how they used to be – their friendship now smeared across the bloodied cell walls._

_"No," Jaina said, pushing past him, "I do."_

* * *

Vereesa heard Jaina before seeing her.

"–insufferable, that woman! She toys with us, mocking us every step of the way and relishing in it! I wonder where she gets off–"

Jaina stopped as she rounded the corner of the Violet Citadel, spotting Vereesa. Her cheeks, flushed with heat, reddened further in embarrassment as she was caught.

"Please, don't stop on my account," Vereesa said. As amusing as it was to see Jaina flustered, she wanted updates on Sylvanas since she was not in attendance to the interrogations. "I've said similar things about her – and far worse. You can take it from me as someone who has suffered her company for decades."

Jaina snorted. Beside her, Modera's mouth twitched.

Vereesa reminded Jaina of their plans for the afternoon. "So, lunch?"

"Of course," Jaina said. She motioned for Modera to tag along and finish their discussion.

The trio descended the steps of the Violet Citadel. Jaina and Modera chatted about prior council matters while Vereesa led the way to an eatery a few ways from the main district in Dalaran.

It was her favourite, owned by one of her High Elven kin. As such, the place reminded her of home with its delicacies and tasteful decor. It also arched high so they could have a separate parlour to themselves on a private floor. They were among good company, in an Alliance aligned city no less; even still, it never hurt to be safe – especially when discussing the sensitive topic of Sylvanas.

"What is she up to now?" Vereesa asked when they were seated in privacy. She was careful not to mention Sylvanas' name or nature of their relationship, of course.

The mere allusion to Sylvanas caused Jaina to groan and rub her temples.

"She refuses to cooperate," Modera said. "Her will is like iron – unyielding and hard. Unbreakable. Trying to make a dent usually ends up with us being hurt if we're not careful, pushing too hard." Despite her words, she looked thoughtful. "Was she always like this?"

The question was directed her way, making Vereesa laugh. Somehow, the sound was unpleasant to her ears. "You have no idea."

"I see."

"Has she said anything of interest?" Vereesa feigned nonchalance, self-conscious of the sudden urge to moisten her lips. "Did she mention me?"

Jaina was still nursing her temples, staving off a headache when she spoke. "Not at all."

"Should she have?" Modera asked.

Under the weight of the question, Vereesa tried not to squirm. It was harder than it should have been with the disarming way Modera was watching her. She almost wished Jaina had not brought Modera along for that reason – among others.

Vereesa imagined Aethas in the room behind Modera, leaning close – a bit too close.

Seeing the memory bleed into present made it easier to respond with the barest hint of scorn. "I've lived in Dalaran since before the Scourge invaded our homeland," Vereesa replied. "And I assume by now she knows the prison is the Violet Hold. I would have thought she had made the connection."

Silence fell when a server brought an assortment of food to their table.

Jaina picked up a muffin from the tray. "You know," she mused aloud, "I've been thinking about this. She probably yearns for freedom like any prisoner." She took a few bites of her food and chewed in thought. "Where would she even go?"

"Surely not back to the Horde." Vereesa frowned at the image of her sister under that loathsome red banner. "After all, she was the catalyst for their dissolution."

"The Darkspear Tribe would hunt her if they knew she was alive. For Vol'jin."

"I doubt they would succeed," Vereesa countered, in all seriousness. She pinned Modera with a severe look. "Trolls are more or less the same wherever you go. And she has killed more Trolls than we have in a lifetime combined, three times over." Saying that was probably an insult to Sylvanas, and she amended, "Probably even more."

Modera arched an eyebrow, but did not comment.

"The Orcs still spit at her 'dishonourable' method of killing Garrosh." Jaina huffed at the hypocrisy of the Orcs. "She has no money for the Goblins either – not unless we give her a hefty sum. Maybe the Tauren would grant her asylum if she played for sympathy."

"She doesn't seem like the type to rely on sympathy," Modera pointed out. "No. Perhaps she would seek refuge with the Blood Elves."

The reactions were simultaneous.

"No," Vereesa hissed, flicking the grapes off the table in an instinctual, swatting motion.

Jaina ended up crushing her muffin, shooting down the possibility in a heartbeat. "Absolutely not."

Modera shrugged. "She was their Ranger-General once, and they refused to join the war against her and the Forsaken. I'm sure they would take her in."

Vereesa cursed that Modera was right. Really, she loathed it when the other woman was right and she was proven wrong. It always stung.

And now she had lost her appetite.

The likes of the Blood Elves had been quiet for the secretive half of a year. Too quiet. The thought of Sylvanas disappearing in Quel'thalas, closer to them and away from her, made Vereesa sick to her stomach. It would be another loss among many. She had mourned her sister, and the loss of her homeland, and her wayward kin. To lament the three together would be...

Life could be cruel. Vereesa hoped life was not so cruel to have her find out.

Jaina seemed to have lost her appetite as well. Her squished muffin sat on the table, and she made no move to eat anything else. "This is all beyond the point. She refuses to tell us anything of value. It's been days since she woke up and we haven't made any progress."

"Can you honestly blame her for not being forthcoming? What would you do in her situation?"

Vereesa knew what she would do. Like Sylvanas, she would be as difficult as possible, and mocking the entire way – all the while searching for a way out. She would fight to the bitter end. Whose end to be exact, she was unsure. But life had taught her the end was always bitter.

"Perhaps we ought to change our strategy," Modera suggested. "Drilling her with questions doesn't seem to be working. And if she does feed us information, how will we know if it's true? Things said and given under duress is suspect."

"As a prisoner, anything will be under duress." Jaina was frustrated, and it showed. "What do you suggest we do? Let her roam free?" She looked just about ready to fight Modera on that. "Besides, even if we ease the chain a bit on the chance she'll be agreeable to us, that might be all she needs to escape. I can't enforce strict supervision on her all the time. I physically can't. And putting wards everywhere defeats the purpose of letting her out."

"I could do it."

Both turned to look at her as one. At any other time, Vereesa might have laughed at the rather comical unison of their stares. As it were, with Sylvanas' fate hanging in the balance, she was serious.

"My rangers and I are trained for this," Vereesa said. "Shadowing and covert tactics are our specialty. We're familiar with surveillance. We carried out such tasks in Quel'thalas and Isle of Thunder. Captain Elleane and Ranger Selone know the situation as it is." She indicated between the women opposite her. "And I'm sure your two mages from Lordaeron can provide magical security."

Jaina looked troubled. "I don't know about this, Vereesa. I trust you. I trust you with my life," she added firmly, and Vereesa's breath hitched in her chest. "But this is a lot to handle. Everyone believes she died. It would be in her own best interest to maintain that illusion. You would have to ensure it was kept that way."

"I thought of asking the SI:7," Modera said. "But that would entail explanations, which would then involve Varian. It would no longer be a matter of monitoring unstable magic." She looked down at the table. "Most likely she would be removed from our custody."

For the second time that day, Jaina groaned. She dragged the sound out, making Vereesa nudge her leg under the table in jest. Modera smiled at them.

"I need to think about this," Jaina told them. "And we would need to come up with contingencies in place. Safeguards. I have a spare room in my home that could be repurposed with wards for curfew." She buried her face in her hands, groaning a third time. "Why does it sound like I would have a teenager on my hands?"

"Too soon," Vereesa murmured, shaking her head. "You can't say that to me. Not when you don't have kids of your own."

"I think we need to sleep on this," Modera said. "Take a few days." She plucked some food off the tray and departed, and Jaina later followed suit, leaving Vereesa alone in the parlour.

Lunch had ended on a lighter note with jokes about the trial of having children. Vereesa smiled at the thought of her boys, but the joy soon faded. Dread took its place at the inevitability of Sylvanas meeting them, were she to be released to confinement in Dalaran; worse, if her sister remembered her reasons for staying behind – choosing a life with her sons over a bleak one in Undercity.

Did Sylvanas even remember the letter? According to Jaina and Modera, Sylvanas remembered much yet maintained her silence on things beneath her.

There was only one way of knowing. And Vereesa had to know.

That night, she approached the Violet Hold under the guise of observing the Sunreavers. It was not an outright lie; sometimes she did check in on them. Not because she was invested in their wellbeing, or to see the loathing they had for her, but to know they were imprisoned. She had made her choice, and would stand by it.

To the bitter end.

Vereesa walked past them with her head held high. She had never faltered nor flinched and was not about to start now. Rhydian and Selone were on guard duty tonight. They were joking about something; she could tell by their smiles, the laughter. All of that vanished at her approach.

"Ranger-General," Selone greeted. It was obvious why Vereesa had come, and she bit her lip. "Are you sure this is wise?"

"Not at all," Vereesa said with casualness she did not feel. "But I would see my sister anyway. Alone."

Rhydian's hand hovered over the magical apparatus on the wall. She did not release it at first. Eventually, she said, "We'll be right outside just in case," before dimming the barrier.

Walking through the arcane wall was always quite the sensation. Vereesa could never quite place it; all she knew was that it was strong and intense, resonating deeply. The same could be said when glimpsing her sister beyond the barrier.

Sylvanas sat on a chair with her back turned, all that long hair of hers on display. Seeing it reopened a wound, reminding Vereesa so much of their mother from the back it ached.

"Come to pay me a visit, dearest sister?"

Her tone was mild, dare Vereesa say pleasant. For a few seconds, she relaxed – until Sylvanas stood and turned.

The coldness in Sylvanas' eyes was piercing – the bite to her next words even sharper. Vereesa felt the wound rip, knowing her sister remembered everything.

"I don't why you bothered. You could have just sent another letter."


	5. Forsaken

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been busy. Between work, business, university, assignments, and clinical placement, I've have limited time to relax. Healthcare never sleeps. Here, have some Little and Lady Moon feels.

Of all the things Vereesa could have said, this was the worst.

"How are you?"

It was an insult to everything that had happened and the history between them.

"If you came here to exchange pleasantries, you can see yourself out. The exit is that way." Sylvanas jerked her chin towards the arcane barrier. "I know it might be difficult for one such as you, dearest sister, but do try not to miss it on your way out."

Vereesa flushed. The redness to her cheeks might as well have been a handprint – Sylvanas slapping her without so much as lifting a finger. It wiped the silly look on her face of falsities, mocking in its niceness. There was no need for that. Between them, in their closeness, there had never been any room for pretence.

"Well, excuse me for minding my manners as mother taught us," Vereesa said a bit testily, and there it was – the spark, that feisty touch of heat. Rather than leave as ordered, she made it glaringly obvious to move deeper into the cell. "I suppose we're way past that."

Sylvanas wanted to resume her seat but thought better of it. She was a fraction taller than Vereesa and would not have her little sister look down at her. Advantages as a prisoner were hard to come by. She refused to show any form of weakness, settling herself against the wall with arms crossed, waiting.

"You haven't told Jaina what I did," Vereesa said. "Why haven't you?"

It was another insult – a backhanded one at that. Really, Vereesa should know better; she had never snitched on her sister when they were younger, and was not about to make a habit of it years later.

"Do you think I am a fool or petty as to tattletale? Because I am neither." Sylvanas stared Vereesa down. "Jaina is of the Alliance. She was there to besiege Lordaeron – along with the rest who acted without proof. For reasons I don’t know, that woman has it out for me. I doubt the likes of Jaina would believe anything I say."

Sylvanas glared at her sister, just to make her displeasure evident, then averted her eyes to the opposite wall. She had said her piece; Vereesa could now leave. It would not be the first time leaving, after all.

The message was clear.

Except it wasn't. Vereesa slid into her vision, blocking the view. It was most vexing as her sister seemed to want more, overstaying her welcome. Very well. If Vereesa wanted to play like that, fine – Sylvanas would do that. And far worse.

"Besides, I'm trapped here," Sylvanas said. "Anything I do would be taken out of my hands."

Vereesa frowned in confusion, giving the opening she needed.

Sylvanas prowled away from the wall. She ate the distance between them, savouring each bite. Every step was unhurried, her movements calculated, driven by intent of giving Vereesa what she wanted. More – much more than she could take.

Vereesa's eyes darted every way, studying her face. Sylvanas did the same.

Up close, near the barrier, the arcane brought out the silver in Vereesa's hair. Little Moon, indeed. Her little sister had always been as vain as she.

Sylvanas touched the ends of that silvery fringe, appreciating its silkiness – the way it slid between her fingers. Such lovely hair that was paler and shorter than hers – ever still beautiful in its own way. She expected no less than that of a Windrunner. It was nostalgic to see that, while their paths in life had diverged, some things remained the same.

"When I make you suffer, dearest sister, you will know it." The softness to Sylvanas' voice tempered her vicious words – honed the edges to inflict a deep wound. "I will make sure you know it. You will know it when you draw your last breath with my hands around your throat."

Vereesa appeared wistful, but that emotion died once she was wounded – the life of it bleeding from her face in dawning horror.

"I was going to kill you," Sylvanas revealed without so much as blinking. "You would have been murdered by my hand the moment you entered Undercity. Only then would you have truly joined the Forsaken." Her fingers ghosted over that slender neck she had longed to throttle. "Only then would you have awoken as one of us."

The blood drained from Vereesa's face, leaving her deathly pale. She looked on the verge of throwing up. Sylvanas had wanted to wound her, to make her bleed, for all she had, herself, bled when she had been abandoned. It had hurt so, so much – and judging by the sick, wounded expression on her sister’s face, she had done it. She had hurt her sister deeply. Victory was a bittersweet thing.

"How could you even think to do that?"

Sylvanas felt a perverse sort of satisfaction when Vereesa slapped her hand away.

"I'm the leader of all that remains of our people – the only one who remembers what it means to stand higher than all the rest. Of Quel'dorei!" Vereesa splayed her hand against her chest in pride. "That butcher may have ravaged our homeland and our people, but you would have finished us off! What's wrong with you?"

"I could ask you the same. What remains of our people are also in cells not too far from here. Oh yes," Sylvanas breathed intently when her sister’s eyes narrowed, "I saw them – the Blood Elves in the cells. Did you really think I would not notice the faces identical to ours?"

If anything, the similarities caused to Vereesa narrow her eyes further. 

"How hypocritical of you. And how typically Alliance of you to preach in one breath and make a mockery of it in the next." Sylvanas’ edge in height had never been more apparent as she looked down at her little sister – for all that Vereesa was and what she represented. "You reek of their hypocrisy and self-righteousness. Pathetic."

Vereesa scoffed. "That’s different."

"How?" Sylvanas challenged. "Because they have green eyes and you don't?"

"You weren’t there. The Sunreavers–"

"Survived that butcher and the Scourge," Sylvanas interrupted. There were many things she would let her sister get away with, but not this. "They are your people whether you like it or not. Yet you cage them as animals like kicking a beaten dog."

Vereesa crossed her arms, refuting the truth in scornful silence.

"They looked lifeless when I saw them. When was the last time they tasted sunlight?" Sylvanas asked, pausing. She expected something – a reply, or even reproach. Vereesa was nothing if not a woman of scorn. "Does the Sunwell even reach them through these dampening fields? Have you given any thought to the repercussions of what you've done?"

The ensuing silence was oh-so bittersweet – another victory. Vereesa had been caught.

"Now, you tell me." Using her thumb and forefinger, Sylvanas grasped her sister's chin. "Between us, who has finished off our people?"

"You don't get to do that." Vereesa slapped her hand away a second time. "You don't get to relish in premeditating my murder, then have the gall to put me on trial." Hatred contorted her beautiful face, marred to be a thing most ugly. "You sure have some nerve. How dare you?"

Oh, here we go, Sylvanas thought. She tracked Vereesa's rampaging around the cell as a captive beast, barely tethered by a fraying leash – not so dissimilar to her estranged kin. The signs were there – shrillness of voice, angry fists, and theatrics. Her little sister was going to throw a tantrum. 

"I can't believe you planned to kill me," Vereesa ranted as her hands flailed about.

All that was missing was a table to be flipped. Sylvanas eyed the bedside table in the corner, thinking that perhaps it would suffice. It was rather short such that Vereesa would have to bend down to flip it over. Maybe pointing it out – rather rudely, she might add – would be worth it for the sheer entertainment. Prison could be dreadfully dull at times.

Vereesa whirled around. "Would that have made you happy, Sylvanas?" She had finally snapped, reduced to hoarse and hateful screaming. "Do you want everyone else to suffer because you did? Is that what you want? For others to share and wallow in your misery?"

Beside herself in rage, spewing vitriol, Vereesa had the haunted visage of a banshee about her. Sylvanas found the resemblance to be uncanny. Her sister certainly looked, acted and sounded the part. How wonderful.

Vereesa stomped over to jab a finger at her chest. "In your wretched existence," she spat, lips curled back in a sneer, "would you have derived joy from my end, just to spite yours?"

That stung. Knowing how Vereesa truly felt hurt more than it should have. Sylvanas had almost forgotten how vicious her little sister could be; next to Lirath and Alleria, the Suns of the family, Vereesa was a nasty piece of work – the sibling with the meanest streak.

"I'm so glad we're finally having this conversation," Sylvanas retorted, laden with sarcasm. It was far too easy to fall back into habits of old. "It's nice to know what you really think of me."

Had things been different, Vereesa would have become that which loathed – the very thing she ranted about. She did not know the truth.

Vereesa's death would have been painless – far easier and more merciful than her own had been. It would have been gentle and kind. Arisen as a banshee, bound by the same fate, they would have been a force to be reckoned with, unfettered by the constraints of mortality. They would have ruled the Forsaken together.

As a child, Vereesa liked to lean against her big sister. "You're so strong," she would whisper, hushed as if sharing a precious secret, slipping her smaller hand into Sylvanas'. "Maybe we can be stronger together." Nothing would have changed; Sylvanas would have held her hand every step of the way.

Did the finer details even matter? Would Vereesa be touched to know the truth?

Sylvanas supposed it did not matter anymore – even if the lost opportunity of what could have been lingered in her mouth.

"You were going to join us," Sylvanas spat back, tasting the bitterness of shrivelled hope. "For all of your disgust with the Forsaken, you valued our strength – an indomitable will to carve out our own destiny in this world. The Forsaken met their end. But believe me – we dragged everyone else down with us. Those standing against the Forsaken at Lordaeron followed us to the grave."

Vereesa wore a look of utmost distaste. She did not have it in her to care for those that perished from a war she had started, if unwittingly. The lack of reaction for the dead was damning, merely proving the point.

"You can preach your niceties and righteousness to others for all you want." Sylvanas sneered at that. "Try to fit in with your Alliance 'friends'. I don't care." It was her turn to jab fingers, and she did so without mercy, prodding after each word. "But never presume to lie to my face. I know what you are deep down and all of the things you're capable of."

Vereesa turned her nose up at that.

It was a mask – acting beyond reproach. Vereesa wore her haughtiness as a cover to hide the ugliness underneath. Sylvanas would see to that mask ripped off, hauling her sister close by the collar of her tabard.

"I know you," Sylvanas hissed. "A lifetime apart and I know you still. You can’t hide from me, Little Moon."

The term of endearment struck a nerve – just as she knew it would.

"Shut up! Don't you ever call me that again!"

Vereesa was fast, however Sylvanas was that much faster and honed in her ruthless, single-minded pursuit of her goal. She caught the fist aimed at her face. Her other hand tightened around the fistful of tabard, and she used it to yank Vereesa closer. The pull drove her elbow forward, digging into her sister's shoulder, to prevent movement there and at her legs as they were forced apart, pinned to the wall.

With nowhere to go, Vereesa turned to spite once more. It seemed all she had left. "You're a monster – a shadow of my sister. You don't know what you're talking about."

"Oh, but I do."

The knowing edge must have spooked Vereesa; she started to struggle.

Sylvanas lowered her voice, whispering, "I remember when mother told me I was going to have a little sister to protect. I touched her belly, pressed my ear against it, listened – and you kicked back. You were always a feisty little one, weren’t you?"

Her words reopened a wound, the fight bleeding from Vereesa.

"I remember your coming into this world." Sylvanas' lips thinned in contempt at the memory. "Alleria was off somewhere. For all her talk of love for her family and her people, she was never there when she was needed the most, was she?" Her mouth relaxed. "But I was. I made sure to be there for you without shirking my ranger duties."

Vereesa did not reply – nor did she have to. Her thick swallowing spoke volumes of the things she could not bring herself to say.

"I remember holding you for the first time. Mother passed you into my arms as a mere babe swaddled in cloth. You were a crying, whiny little thing. So determined and full of spite." It was rare for Sylvanas to smile – unmoved in death as she was in life. Here in the dark, with her sister, as it always should have been, she smiled. "You tried to pull on my hair. Did you know that?"

Vereesa did not have the faintest clue. She stared, lost for words.

"I had never held such fire before," Sylvanas murmured. "I was no mage, and I never thought it possible without magic."

She glanced at the fist trapped in hers. Back then, it had been smaller – far more delicate and vulnerable. Such tiny, chubby fingers that had instinctively curled around her thumb. _Precious_. In a way, it was rather precious that Vereesa tried to fight her, throwing punches in the vain hope it would land. Nothing had dimmed that fire.

Sylvanas' smile deepened, the skin around her eyes creasing. "You would have burned me if you could," she said. "And yet I did not pass you back to mother. Even if it burned me, all I could think of was to hold on tighter and protect this bundle of fire."

Pride always brought the best and worst out of Vereesa. Her eyes glistened, and her lower lip quivered. Still, she did not let the tears fall.

Vereesa had never looked younger – much like the baby sister Sylvanas doted on, who would always come running to her with problems, be it huge or small. A scraped knee; a broken heart from a boy Sylvanas would later pay a 'friendly' visit. For a moment, she almost felt sorry for what she was going to do, hesitating in tenderness.

Almost.

Until Sylvanas remembered the letter – with it, the mistake of daring to hope.

Sylvanas' smile began to fade. "I remember when you approached me during that ridiculous trial. You came to me. You gave the poisonous idea to me. It was _you_ who planted the poison on the sunfruit." Her voice became louder – harsher with each fact she threw in her sister's face, until finally it came out. "You're a monster – a murderer, just like me."

It was effortless to play her sister. Sylvanas knew Vereesa loathed association of things beneath her – the Sunreavers, Blood Elves, and now this.

"Poisoning Garrosh wasn't enough, was it?" Sylvanas advanced at Vereesa, the walls of her arms and body closing in. "You thought of defecting because you were already forsaken."

The truth was too much to bear. Vereesa could no longer stomach the awfulness of it and retreated, hiding behind her fringe. Sylvanas would have none of that; she brushed that curtain of hair to the side, compelling her sister to face the truth in all of its ugliness.

"Garrosh was only the beginning." Sylvanas paused for effect. "Others who hurt you would have been the next. And we – the Forsaken, who had been forsaken – would have embraced you and helped you do it."

Sylvanas loosened her hold, though she did not go far. In truth, there was little space in the cell. And she was not finished.

"You always wanted to be strong, dearest sister." Sylvanas ran her knuckles across Vereesa's cheek, harsh enough to nudge her jaw. "A pity. If only you had the strength to follow through."

The mockery of the caress hit as another slap.

Vereesa recoiled from her, aghast. "In hindsight, it's a blessing that I didn't! I would have died twice – first at the hands of one whom I called 'sister', then the Horde and Alliance." The hysteria returned, more shrill than before. "It would have been all for nothing with my death!"

"For someone still living, you're awfully concerned with dying," Sylvanas mused. "Damnation. Torment. These sufferings are pervasive beyond the living. You have no idea what it is to walk the realms of the dead. Why are you so fixated on death?"

Vereesa's hand, drawn into a tight fist, pressed her heart. "Because I'm a mother! I have two sons who are fatherless. You would have made them motherless, too." She swallowed with obvious difficulty – a struggle to get the single, deplorable word out. "Orphans."

Sylvanas scowled, reminded of that letter. "Who are you trying convince? Yourself? Not once did you talk about them until that letter, when you pulled them out of thin air." Her eye-roll made her sneer that much more derisive. "It was almost convenient."

"I was still grieving after Theramore! And I wanted vengeance – so much so at the expense of everything good in my life."

"You're terrible," Sylvanas remarked with a shake of her head. She did not care for the twins' wellbeing in the slightest – only used them as an opportunity to hurt her sister. "Just as bad as Alleria running off on a fool's errand beyond the portal."

This time, to her credit, Vereesa did not flinch from the truth. "Well, maybe I am a terrible mother," she acknowledged in a shaky breath. "But at least I’m trying!"

The pathetic excuse was just that – pathetic, and an excuse. Neither was acceptable. Sylvanas had learned that the hard way, to her dying breath.

Vereesa was not done. "Of all the people to throw vengeance in my face, you should be the last person to!"

"You dare to–"

"My boys are Windrunners – the future of our house!" Vereesa drowned her out with a yell. "For goodness sake, they are your family! Your nephews!"

Sylvanas lifted her chin. "My family died in Quel'Thalas, and in Lordaeron," she said coldly. The Forsaken were not her family. But in the end – at their very end – they had been. "Your spawns are no kin of mine. I don't even know–"

"Did you know Galadin wants to grow up to be a ranger?" The question burst from Vereesa in a hot rush. "Giramar has taken to magic like Rhonin, attuned to the arcane like our people, but Galadin is like us."

Sylvanas grit her teeth at the interruption – by matters of trivia, no less.

Vereesa took a bold step forward, poised with determination. "Galadin visits the menagerie in Dalaran often to see the stabled pets. He longs to visit Eversong Woods and walk among the wilderness. Every night at bedtime, he asks me to tell him stories about Quel'Thalas."

Really now, the trivia was unwelcome.

Sylvanas tried to imagine her brat of a sister doing maternal things. For the undeath of her, she could not reconcile that domestic image with the scheming, hateful person she knew. Vereesa was capable of coldblooded murder and worse – more rotten underneath than wholesome. She did not know whether to laugh in her sister's face or hit her. Maybe that would put an end to this farce.

To her disbelief, Vereesa had no intention of stopping, either.

"Galadin dreams of becoming _the_ Ranger-General," Vereesa said. "He wants to walk in the footsteps of his ancestors – like his grandmother and his aunt. Most days, he is a shy boy following his big brother's lead." She smiled down at her feet. "But when he speaks of dreams, of being the best, he has that haughty look about him. The same as you."

It was impossible to tune out. The cell was cramped, amplifying every sound – from the leaking faucet, to their breathing. Sylvanas cursed her sensitive ears attuned to the living. She did not care for Vereesa, nor her children – certainly not this so-called 'Galadin' who supposedly had _the_ look about him.

"The Farstriders would not welcome him. You know how hard it was the first time with your Human..." Vereesa trailed off and made a vague gesture as to whatever that was. "I was going to train Galadin when he was ready. If I had died, that light would have been snuffed out."

Sylvanas stalked over to the chair facing the wall. She did not want to look at her sister anymore – could not stand the sight of her, seeing her face, the slope of her brows, that pout of a mouth. Seeing made her mind wander, and she resented such distractions, quelling any thoughts straying to what her sister's children looked like.

Vereesa had made her choice, picking the twins over her. She could do as she pleased. The Forsaken chose their path upon resurrection. It was that will of the Forsaken that differed from the mindless Scourge.

Sylvanas chose not to care. She refused to.

" _Belore_ , what's wrong with you?" Vereesa screeched behind her back. "Look at me, damn you! Galadin wants to be just like you!"

Her sister had no right to demand anything of her. Sylvanas would not be cowed into looking.

"Are you so incapable of caring? Did death kill off that part of you, too?" Unshed tears shone in Vereesa's eyes, sparkling with anger. "Why did you even bother coming back?"

"What do you want of me, Vereesa?" For the first time in their reunion, Sylvanas spoke her sister's name. It came out flat – as weary and drained as she felt. The sleepless nights had not been kind, and neither was this. "I've already had war crimes laid at my feet. Perhaps you should have besieged Undercity like everyone else."

"I... I wanted to apologise."

Sylvanas found that hard to believe. "Really. You came here to say sorry."

"I didn't intend to throw all of that in your face. I–I got carried away. I'd almost forgotten what it was like between us. It just–" A cry of frustration. "I'm sorry."

Sylvanas gripped the chair. "What are you sorry for?"

"I'm sorry for sending you that awful token letter," Vereesa said. "You deserved better than that." 

In an instant, Sylvanas was on her feet, the chair tumbling to the ground. "Yes, that letter. Let's talk about that letter."

This had been a long time coming. In the creeping dark, it was all she had thought about – filling her head and consuming her mind. Hatred was potent – sustaining in a way nothing else could be in the endless torment. For so long, she had seethed at the only person capable of bringing her down at her knees, truly inflicting hurt.

Little Moon.

Sylvanas bore down on her sister, the arcane brightness in the cell dimming, faltering at her malevolent advance. Shadows lurked in the corners of the cell. She could imagine how she must have looked for Vereesa paled, eyes wide at the mere sight of her.

Was it fear? Did the trembling come from a place of terror? Vereesa did not know true fear or terror. She knew not of being rended apart, brought to her knees, and broken. Sylvanas would show her.

"Sylvanas, I–"

"Do you know what it was like to receive your letter?" Sylvanas hissed.

Vereesa backed away. "I don't–"

"Did you know I sat and stood there for hours," the blueness of Sylvanas' eyes darkened to red, "waiting for you at our spot?"

"I never–"

"Do you know how the Horde and Alliance got the advantage over the Forsaken?" The scrape to her voice elicited a violent flinch from Vereesa. "How they managed to invade Forsaken lands, despite our footholds in Hillsbrad and outlying Plaguelands?"

"I can't–"

"Because I wasn't there from the start – otherwise our defences would have been stronger, more coordinated," Sylvanas snarled, looming over her sister's cowering form. "I wasn't there to lead my people. And do you know why I wasn't there?"

By now, Vereesa’s back had reached the wall of the cell. She was at the end of the line; there was nowhere else to go. Tears threatened to spill from her eyes. Her body curled inwards, arms shaking at her chest, trying for all diminutive instincts to make herself smaller.

"I swear, I never meant for it to be like this!" Vereesa let out a strangled, uncontrolled sob. "I'm sorry!"

"Stop that," Sylvanas snapped. She seized her sister by the shoulders, willing the pandering to stop. "I told you never to lie to me!"

"I was a coward! I'm sorry!"

The confession hung between them, long after its echo faded.

Sylvanas tensed when Vereesa made a sudden movement, reaching for her. Thinking that her sister intended to throw her off, her fingers clamped down onto leather pauldrons, vice-like in her grip. If Vereesa wanted brutality, so be it. She had already proven to be the better ranger by splitting her sister's arrow in half at Windrunner Spire. Fisticuffs would be child's play.

It came as a shock when Vereesa covered her hands. The notion of touching was not so much surprising as the intention behind it – keeping Sylvanas close.

"You're right," Vereesa agreed, far softer and gentler than Sylvanas ever remembered her being. "I was the one to approach you. I gave you the idea to poison Garrosh. I convinced you to be a part of it. You gave me the poison, but I did the rest." She squeezed Sylvanas' hands, weakly as it were. "It was all my doing and you died for it."

Sylvanas never thought Vereesa would own up to anything – much less be willing to show remorse, even if she somehow felt it. Perhaps remorseful for failing her children, by virtue of that letter, but not outright forthcoming – and certainly not like this.

"Part of me knows that I should have died with you. I... I think some part of me did."

Vereesa visibly deflated. Her ears fell, drooping like the wilted flowers on the Dead Scar. Sylvanas was stunned to see it.

"Sometimes I feel as if I'm broken – something fractured, deep inside me." Vereesa touched her chest. Her hand shook, searching for something that was missing. "I don't feel whole anymore. The pieces never seem to fit," she said, then held out her hand.

It was empty.

This was surely a joke. A ploy to make a fool of her again. Another of Vereesa's theatrics, woven to pull at her heartstrings.

Sylvanas should have felt certain of it. And yet she stared at that hand, then at her sister. For a moment, she saw a girl of her seventh autumn, clutching at her older sister's leg, huddled close to Sylvanas in the stillness of night.

"Everyone around me seems to wither away. They leave," Vereesa choked, struggling to breathe, "taking pieces of me with them. I–I see their faces at night and I can't sleep anymore. And my hands–"

The hand between them convulsed.

"I wash them – over and over, and again." Vereesa did just that – wrung her hands frantically, scrubbing at her raw, exposed skin for stains only she saw. "No matter how hard I try, they are never clean. I put on a brave face for my sons, but–"

Vereesa broke down, the tears falling.

The dead were supposed to be cold and lifeless – anathema to the warmth of the living. Sylvanas felt trapped in between. She went eerily still as Vereesa hauled her into a hug and buried a tear-stricken face at her chest, soaking the front of her plain tunic. Her sister cried and cried – and kept crying as hands clutched weakly at her back, desperate for something.

Something that made Sylvanas uncomfortable.

"You asked me to stay with you, and I said _yes_. My boys..." Vereesa lifted a trembling hand to her mouth. "Most days I get by. Other days it aches to look at them. I see my beloved Rhonin in their faces and it haunts me. They would not understand – no one would. Everyone else had forsaken me," Vereesa drew back to gaze up at her, "but not you. Never you."

Peering down into Vereesa's face only worsened the discomfort. Sylvanas had to clench her jaw and fists at its familiar sensation. The phantom pain was a warning, she knew, of undeath and mistakes – a haunting reminder of her error to think she could feel beyond damnation.

"You were always there for me when you could be. And then–" Vereesa's voice cracked, "–all I did was send you a letter to refuse, forsaking you instead." She shut her eyes. Tears ran down her face, unchecked in remorse. "That must have hurt you. I'm sorry – so, so sorry."

The apology was better than the last. But it was not enough – nothing ever would be.

"Is that it? Lamenting over your method of refusal." Sylvanas jeered here, because she could – because it made the phantom pains a bit more bearable to have an outlet for her anguish. "Would you have preferred to send a painting instead?"

Pain twisted Vereesa's face. "Stop it. Why does everything have to be hard with you?" She gripped Sylvanas' tunic in earnest, as if to make it stop. "Can't we just–"

"No. I would hear it now." There was no going back from this. Sylvanas made that hard and clear, pushing her sister away. "No more lies and pretence – none of that cowardice and hiding behind letters." She appeared unmoved, even if her insides were torn apart. "I would hear the truth from you."

Vereesa's chin wobbled in spite of her efforts to be strong. "I'm not going to apologise for anything else. I chose a life with my sons over undeath with you," she said. "Given the choice, I would do it again."

Sylvanas closed her eyes. When she opened them, it was to regard the fallen chair in cold clarity. She walked towards it, not bothering to look behind. There was nothing left for her there. She was in the middle of righting the chair when she heard it.

"I mourned you."

The wooden chair creaked.

"When Jaina told me of your fate, I–"

"I've heard enough," Sylvanas growled. This feeling, the clawing at her chest–

"I missed you so much. I still do."

Sylvanas saw red. If Vereesa did not leave now, she would do something she could never take back.

"Every day, every waking moment, I–"

Sylvanas could not take it anymore. She whipped around, sending the chair flying in rage. "Get out! Leave me alone!"

The chair nearly hit Vereesa, sailing past to splinter against the wall into pieces. Its brokenness only made her cry anew. "I'm sorry," she cried, burying her face in her hands. She fell, crumpling to her knees. "I–I never wanted to choose. I wanted both you and my boys. I'm so sorry. I hope that one day you can forgive me."

It was a way out – something to focus on.

Sylvanas locked onto it. Her head snapped at attention, facing her sister with unnerving concentration. "You want forgiveness?" she repeated. "You can have it. I will only ask one thing of you."

Vereesa looked up.

On her knees, full of desperation and sorrow, Sylvanas knew her sister would give her anything she asked. She recognised that bleak stare. Years ago, the Forsaken had looked at her the same way. They had repulsed her, and Vereesa's weakness was most unbecoming of a Windrunner – for all that she could be. Still, their need was empowering.

Sylvanas wielded such power as she crouched down. "Get me out of here," she said, touching her sister's face. She wiped the tears away, smoothing over the wet lines with her thumb. "I asked you to stay with me, once. I won't ask that of you ever again. I only ask that you help me escape from here. Do what you will to free me from this arcane prison."

Vereesa sighed, sagging against her hand. "Where will you go?"

Sylvanas refused to answer. She did not owe Vereesa anything and instead withdrew, heading elsewhere. She did not know where she was going, only that she needed to keep moving, restless. The days in the cell were long – the nights longer still, bereft of peaceful sleep. The trappings of her living body made it worse.

Vereesa rose to her feet. "I could help you get to wherever you need to go. Or assist you, somehow." She reached for her sister a second time, but caught herself, biting her lip. "Money, supplies, weapons – that sort of thing."

Silence descended on the cell, the quiet disturbed by rustling cloth. Sylvanas peeled back the sorry excuse for bedding and paused, eyeing the rumpled sheets. Last night, she had tossed and turned, slipping in and out of fitful sleep. The night before that, she had stared at the ceiling, then the wall. Would tonight be any different?

For a while, Sylvanas just stood there. The silence stretched on until Vereesa spoke.

"You don't know where you're going, do you?"

"I'll find my own way," Sylvanas told her. She slid into bed, turning her back on her sister. "I always have."

Vereesa was about to say something. Sylvanas heard the intake of breath, but no words came – just distant footsteps and the hum of arcane. She was alone, once again.

That night, Sylvanas did not sleep.


End file.
